It sweeps along the boulevard And puts pedestrians on guard. They clamp their hats down to their heads.
It whistles down from tall skyscrapers And carries with it old newspapers. It rips and tears them into shreds.
Rinny Templeton's "Wind" gives us a quick snapshot of a gale blowing through a city. The wind charges down a boulevard, and people on the sidewalk instantly brace themselves, pressing their hats onto their heads. Then it drops from the skyscrapers, picks up discarded newspapers, and shreds them to pieces.
The speaker never says "I feel" anything. Instead, the poem works by watching, almost like a camera. We never see the wind itself, only what it does: people tense up, paper tears. That makes it seem like a living thing with a will of its own, something that "sweeps," "whistles," "rips," and "tears." The verbs are doing most of the work here.
The mood is brisk and a little menacing. The short lines and tight rhymes (guard/heads, skyscrapers/newspapers) move quickly, like a sudden gust, and there's a hint of playful roughness in how the wind treats yesterday's news. It reads as a small, vivid moment of nature overpowering the orderly city.