There is a certain subtlety to the wind,

the way in which it seems to evade everything,

and if when hindered,

how it bends and forks to resume a path to nowhere.

Such innocence often bequests questions,

but none for the quiet wind.

There is not an inquisition into its past,

on what it had seen or where it had come from;

nor a wondering to where it might go or what it might take.

Only casual glances and occasional stares, for

the wind comes without calling and never stays long.

A gentle guest, considerate of what it might tell.

Certainly not something that you did not already know.

For it is a creature of habit,

and you had been a spy all along.

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