Blustery when I enter the bale today, trees tossed and swaying arhythmically down through their trunks. Some sprung tension in the spoken words, plans for travel changing around plans for ceremonies that changed plans for someone’s birthday. (A different present, is all that means.) Plans suspended and cast around like leaves in the fire of mid-day sun. Taking Sweet Orange to the heat island today, for ceiling fans, to make our own air. As we batten down the nearest future, temper possibility with the need to live in it, with shape and stability of steady wood. BUT how it whips through locks of hair, skims past cloth to know by touch the skin, which raises spirit into chills of fresh sensation, altogether un-imagined, is the wind-kissed exhilaration of promised days beyond ground, beyond even gravity, when we (or whatever we have become) will live in aerial dimensions, as shapes unbodied, unbuilt, and fleeing toward an ungovernable unknown.
