The Wind is the Breeze

The Wind is the Breeze, Among Other Things
(like how we write)

Watching out my window today,
watching the way the leaves and limbs sway,
the critters cut capers in the upstairs state,
up in the treetops they play with their mate.
They dance with the zephyrs, though darting--
                                                              no rush.

The sway of trees stops--
                            the chirping birds hush,
as the state sees the man looking up, by the trunk.
He stumbles while watching, as if he was drunk,
and he seemed puzzled, while still looking upward,
state of being and view changed--
                                        possession flustered. 

Yet for structure,
                it seems a third act must be mustered,
to anti the climatic, connect to the next,
like critters connected by trees are the text,
and the birds and the bees are the pen and the paper,
and the dance of the critters: the story--
                                                      the caper.