The leaves rattle like a rain stick. The wind comes in billows and spins them in the stuck space between the porch and the driveway. I try to time the blusters but I have no clock beside me. No way to tell if the wind has a rhythm, a schedule, a plan. When it pauses I wonder if that’s the wind is taking its next breath.
This intangible thing.
The ethereal runs us. The multi-named invisible combining into crisp veins that twist their way into us, combing the inside of our bodies, their furrowed field. They bury and chase and the us is really me standing beside the field, hands shaking, begging them leave.
But they stay and stay.
The leaves skate circles in the wind, dragging their crisp veins across the concrete making a sound they can only make once they’re dead.
When the sun leaves your life and all is dark and cold, you put on many sweaters and hats to combat the shocking absence. You stumble in the gloom, traversing all of your familiar but despite the sameness, all is different with the light gone. The scarves only bring so much warmth, the candles, only so much bright. Dancing under this new sky is not like dancing was before. There is no feeling the music, it is simply hearing the beat and reacting to it.
But, oh, when that sun returns.