What do you mean the wind is not alive? Look at the way it courts the shy juniper. Can’t you see its reliable visits every afternoon? Its secure attachment style to its own wet and thunderous passions? Let’s go be alive like that, like rattlesnakes making a cursive communion on the road at night. They say it’s the heat trapped in the asphalt that draws them but I know it’s the way the stars ambush their loneliness with their communities of fire, the waning moon glowing like a hypothesis, the snakes curling their bodies into a yes.
