Cackles of geese flying north break
the late morning sounds of creaking,
icecoated branches rocking in the wind.
Another storm gathers, and the winged
migrants leave for warmer spaces.
O, for sturdy wings, and a squadron
of kindred souls flying out of arctic regard!
Warmer times, warmer places, other
voices, other rooms: I long for those old
cellophane sounds of sheer curtains
brushing against the chimes lavish
with their tinkles until the wind dies down.
Odd, but with hurt urgency, I hear them.
— Albert B. Casuga
A fresh cement of wintry mix traversed by chipmunks, tails italic with urgency. Ice-coated branches rock in the wind—a cellophane sound. ---Dave Bonta, The Morning Porch, 02-21-11(http://www.morningporch.com/