A prose poem written while I lived amongst the rye

You asked me what I saw, so I looked.  It was a tree on a flat plain, rather barren.  It was late October, and the bitter wind blew wave after wave of the tall, browned rye towards the tree who, embarrassingly naked of all his glory, hung his bare, black bones undecidedly into the ashen sky, almost as if wanting to retract them.  He had no friends, or so he told me.  He never had.  Even the birds who made him their home did so disdainfully, raucously cackling and asking why it was that one tree would come to live amongst the rye, miles from its nearest neighbor. 
"Wind," said some.
And he sat quietly beneath their cold banter, hating them for referring to him in third person, wishing to push them from his weary limbs.  Months ago, there had been a certain amount of warmth in those summer evenings when the birds came down to serenade the sunset with their hushed tones and pious murmurings while the crickets played and the east-ward breeze waltzed over the plain with its partner the shadow.  But that warmth was gone now, survived only by a few scraggly strands of rye nests and the fading echo of a whisper gnawing at the corners of his mind.  The wind bit deeper, and he shrank back, huddling within himself.  He dozed and dreamed of a warm blanket of sunshine in a meadow of green grass where he stretched his arms lovingly towards his close friends and asked,
"Where does wind come from?"