My Poetry. A World of Survival.

The wind whistles through the trees
like an orchestra tuning instruments.
The sound grows louder by the minute,
rising to a deafening roar.

Bird nests survive the onslaught,
nestled tightly on fragile branches;
the only true defense is the parent,
shielding their vulnerable chicks.

As the squall fades, the sounds dull,
everything settling into a wary peace.
Dawn breaks,
and the cool morning dew is welcomed
by the wakening wildlife.

Rustles stir in the undergrowth,
life resuming its endless hunt for food.
A vast, indifferent supply
feeds all who endure,
in this world where survival is absolute.

© William Sinclair Manson 2025