You can't really get a picture of it.

Not with the sound.

That deep soft roar that runs tirelessly on the wind.

Not with the smell of it.

That ancient smell that rides on the waves,

And crashes on to the shore.

That wind that is cooling one side of my face.

A picture of the wind

Would include the smell and the sound,

and the mist,

that is running helplessly in its arms

across the ocean and on to the land.

I will take a picture 

Of what the wind has left behind,

and capture the bits of old forest

half buried in sand

Scattered like bleached bones on the beach. 

And the shadows that chase the little birds

Chatting and scurrying at the shimmering

tide line.

Besides the bones and birds and the shimmering,

What about the eagle sitting on top of the tree

Above me?

All he watches is the wind,

And what it leaves behind.

Nx