With fingers still sticky from her lazy summer load,
The ponderous breeze drapes down to tickle a toad:
It squirms free from fern fingers and lets out a chirk,
But stares steadfast into the deep stillness of murk.
Though the mud is no mirror and the scum is no sage,
It was sure of the wisdom found in its lack of degage.
But the breeze doesn't mind this one bit or at all:
There's no will in a zephyr nor a mind to a squall.

-Grek Lockwood