Treetops of the southern red-flecked grey hillside are crowned by wind this morning. A misted wind slipping in and out of the lower valley teases, taunts then moves back in the cloud banked sky humming as it goes.  The leafless state of the deciduous trees has left us bereft of their harmonics and the narrow needle of the pine doesn't sing for the wind in most weathers.  Not in a key my human ear can hear.

The hum could easily build into a roar today and looking for some excitement to wake me fully up I half hope it does. Tossed and turned in fact or through the window's view, either will do.  And a good strong wind will replenish the harvest of twigs I have come to hold dear for kindling.  So little effort for so much different the natural world from the human-made.

Too many of our own species would have us pant and push round the clock for the meanest bit of sustenance. And further insult us by having us believe it right and proper to do so if in fact a pitiful few could profit. Bah.  Let the rich man wave his loot at the wind and see what it cares.  No more for him than me. Egalitarian, the natural world.

The wind, it crowns the hillside.