Outside writing - thingy

Hey guys...Here's my thing where we were supposed to go outside and write about....something.
Anyways, I was pretty moody when I wrote this and yeah, obviously this is pretty moody, too.

I hear our old wind chime ding-donging....tinkling away as the wind abuses it. The chimes sound spontaneously, randomly. The notes completely subservient to the wind. The melody is harsh to the ears, the notes are sporadically placed. The tone is irate in its conviction. Tonight the music reflects the wind's disposition.

The wind passes over the rees, weighing down their boughs. The wind strokes the leaves as they rustle in indignation, and carresses the branches as they sigh in submission. The trees have no control over the Napoleonic virtues of the wind.

Tonight the wind heaves itself over the fields, the rivers, and through the trees. It sounds as though it is a thousand souls lamenting over past and present dissapointments. The wind is wailing its dissatisfaction with the world.

The wind does not blow because it wishes to - it blows out of a hollow and meaningless necessity. The wind has lost all of its purpose. It blows solely out of habit.

Tonight the wind sounds weary of this world, and of other worlds, as well. The wind has been the constant and ever-present companion of our earth for centuries and millenia. Indeed, for all time. But it is now exhausted of any previously felt compassion for its needy and ever-wanting friend. The wind feels restless to leave this world behind.