tinge to the air—purple-
scented, fennel fronds shaking green as parties
as when a child I used to draw
mermaid and merman’s hair.
A storm blowing
through, wind in the tunnel of the throat
from the mouth. A story caw-cawing from the branches.
The pines wave back and forth, thrash
the sky. Soft spruce needle whisks, egg-froth of clouds.
To be of the storm, to enter it.
To be entirely air.