The Robber Wind

I think the wind
Must be a thief.
He takes a hat,
He takes a leaf,
And whirls away
Beyond my reach.
Sometimes he softly
Tiptoes by,
Then twirls around
And flips my tie
Or blows a cinder
In my eye.
At times he roars
And beats his chest,
And that’s the time
I love him best—
When he comes
Skirling from the west.