Windy Bog went for a jog,
And came around a bend.
The smell of hickory hit her nose,
And made dreams of autumn blend.
The leaves were red, and orange and brown
And yellow, her favorite shades,
And the Fairwood festival would soon be here.
The Great Songwriter she praised.
The leaves of Fairwood were like no other
Their size dwarfed normal breeds.
Just like the source from which they came.
Fairwood’s great Mora trees.
The leaves could reach three feet in length
And their trees would often be,
Much too high for even
The soaring eagles to see.
The trees were hollowed out for buildings
From houses to City Halls.
In the rural areas the canopy
Was trimmed around 20 feet tall.
In the markets and the public grounds,
They trimmed it higher still
This quiet, forest, island home
Was for her, quite a thrill.
She sang and watched the magic
From her voice’s use
The swirling colors of the leaves
For the magic in the world she lived
Was the music and the sound
Mingling with the physical world
Creating effects to which they were bound.
A battle song wouldn’t just rouse an army
It’d inspire the earth to fight.
Trees would strike out as living extensions
Of the song’s pure might.
This was used not just for battle
But for everyday life.
The songs of the World of Harmadonia
Were full of heavenly light.
But not everyone appreciated
Magic in this way.
Windy’s song was interrupted,
As was her simple play.
Her older brother Cruncher,
Warbled a garbled note.
The leaves turned gray and her flying song
Fluttered down to a float.
Cruncher: “Come on! It’s time to get to work
You lazy little dreamer!
The only song you should be singing
Should run the big clothes steamer!”
Windy sighed and apologized,
Her chores she knew she’d shirked.
Windy: “But you know, Cruncher,” She said with a smile,
“There’s more to life than work.
I have a feeling that very soon
Our lives will change a lot.”
She turned back to their humble home,
And off to do chores she walked.