There is lust in the eyes of the seasons as each take their turn. The rolling fields of green to turn to purest white in time, and then in turn to barren brown to sprout in green again.
But all along the wind will whisper memories of before. Whether a voice from the horizon or a leaf floating on the breeze, it always comes around in a way all of its own.
Soft as the caress of a still cool water in a sheltered pool on a day where there world outside bakes in the light of the sun. Then hard as the war hammer’s strike against both shield and flesh. Yet all in its own time.
In an instant, in an age. So come the winds in their way. To pass the world by as it goes, or bring with it to its horizons, the great ships of war and trade.
And all of that unseen save for all it causes.