The wind is speaking again;
Low and slow, it carries its tale to the edge of the sky.
As I watch, I want to press against it like an Upstreamer,
To strain against the things it tells me.

There is no time like this one;
It has not been, and will not be again no matter what is dreamt.
I try to hold it like a vine grasping to the elder tree left in the empty orchard,
But it slips past with the song of the wind.

To eat and drink the moving air,
To live upon its breath is to become a current in the water or an eddy in the sand.
When it moves through, I am carried outside myself;
I am made to be untethered.

It is uneasy to be free;
To be able to bend and twist and dance without fetters.
To bow with my whole-self and change my shape is how I remain


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