There was a wilder
tinge to the air—purple-

scented, fennel fronds shaking green as parties
filigreed
as when a child I used to draw
mermaid and merman’s hair.
A storm blowing
through, wind in the tunnel of the throat
and rushing
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.