A gift, such as it is, to anyone who can massage and make a song out of it.

Rank after rank, on a brush covered hill,
Stand tall alien beings, unearthly and still.
An army of sentinals standing their watch,
In gleaming white rows which no mortals could match.

Awaiting the winds that will stir them again,
Their eerie white paddles, like the wings of a plane,
In stately rotation, they arc through the sky,
I behold, mesmerized, as beneath them I lie.

Woof woof, woof woof, as they rip through the air,
A scythe to the eagle that flies unaware.
The current they send to the home far away,
A gift from the winds as they go on their way.