and the trees roar with it
bashing together at the mercy of one another,
or seemingly so
frenzied by composition, their composer unseen
and we lower to the hillside, stomachs flush
against the invisible tide, and the
moving of each blade of grass
and each perfect bound leaf
swiftly and deftly in the left direction
as if to turn time backwards, in
orchestrations of risings and fallings
of light cotton on skin; billowing
of braided cornsilk strands, willed all away from restraint
and everything is wild and unkempt, if only in flashes
and all is complicit.