I've never liked the warm wind. It blows in arrogantly, like a pushy relative. You can't deny it, you can't avoid it, it just arrives without invitation. It's almost malicious. Like you're not sure it means anything, but after it has gone, there may be nothing left.

I've never like the warm, dry wind. It just seems to blow the tall corn in the wrong direction. It's out of place on cool evenings in the summer and fall. Always coming in the night, as if to hide from the forces of daylight. It's a foreigner in an otherwise stable and simple land.

I've never liked the warm, dry wind. The bringer of change and changer of things. What good can come of it? Who has ever gained from it's empty movements. It always brings with it clouds to block the stars. Like it's got to have the attention for itself.

Damn the warm, dry wind. Let it blow upon some wanting soul, who tires of the cold, wet breeze. Let it be swallowed back into the union of the four winds from whence it came, a rebellious child of the dark, a defiler of the purity of these simple fields.

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