The Empty Ones

The wind picks up drags along with it wherever it wants: the empty bags the torn scraps of paper the dry branches. The dry ones, the empty ones, the unbound fragments, the scraps of paper: they whirl in the air at the whim of the wind they fall to the ground at the whim of the wind they roll under the wheels of cars with the sound of short and long thin whimpers playthings of the wind's game. They have no roots: the dry ones, the empty ones. The tall cypress stands firm with its earth. The tall cypress in the onslaught of the gale. The tall cypress has rooted to the depths of the womb of its earth for centuries...