Once upon a time, in the softness and perfect blossoming of a July summer, a butterfly was fluttering at the whim of the wind, under the knowing gaze of the sun. She flew high in the sky, higher than ... [+]
There was a wildertinge to the air—purple-scented, fennel fronds shaking green as partiesfiligreed as when a child I used to drawmermaid and merman's hair. A storm blowingthrough, wind in the tunnel of the throat and rushingfrom the mouth. A story caw-cawing from the branches.The pines wave back and forth, thrashthe sky. Soft spruce needle whisks, egg-froth of clouds.To be of the storm, to enter it. To be entirely air.
