Everything is a dog on this one leash:
All things move, seeking to make themselves better off.
Hot, dense air rises to cool and dissipate.
Wind blows to restore balance to the sky
filled with millions of gaseous molecules
all stumbling over one another.

People move to find their own space,
or else leave theirs to join together.

Herds of buffalo migrate,
following the solar rays that convert
blades of grass into protein and energy and life.
Hunters follow the buffalo, following the grass, following the sun.
All things seek the light, the warmth, and protection.

* * * *

I bring my books, my papers, my things,
Like a lunatic dragging his office with him on vacation,
But she has other plans for us.
The wind, she ruffles the pages of my books
Like so many hairs on my head,
Frustrating me to madness,
How can I read if you won't stop pestering so?
Snatching the crisp, pressed fibers of trees from my hands
Unbound, single youths she pulls by the hand
To dance about in the breeze, twirling and waltzing away.
She did not hear me, or else did not care.
So I stomp my feet.
I jump about to regain my dusty old things,
Hands flailing, lurching here and there,
Afraid to let them go,
Afraid to admit they don't need me
But that I need them
Afraid someone might walk up
And catch me with empty hands
Surrounded by so many other beautiful things to hold,
Still wet-eyed over a lover who has unloved me for the wind.

And then I feel the breeze,
How she caresses my cheeks,
Gently plays with my hair,
And I repent of my books,
Forget the dusty definitions
And formulas, truths, stories, and words
That I had been so in love with.
This is a new strange language,
The whisper of a million invisible beings,
Held together not by ink, nor pressed,
A voluntary chorus,
Asking if I will join in.
Of course I said yes.

Should I feel like a convert to some new strange religion,
White knuckled saint clutching to his holy books,
Filled with commandments, rites, and doctrine,
Only to find that if any rules exist,
None are written down for there is no substance to accept them,
No clay to receive the papyrus,
No rock to take the chisel,
Who can read or write the air?
It comes from where it will,
And goes as it pleases.
It has no law, no right, nor wrong,
There is no afterlife,
Except the life it gives me as I breathe.

Who must it listen to?
Show me its king?
Stop talking, she tells me, and dance.
I keep talking.
Is it god exactly?
I don't know.
Is it a child or is it old?
Being born, or dying,
Or both?
Still too many questions, too little dancing.
(she wants to get me drunk and have her way with me)

Something in me forgets how I got here,
I know the dog needs letting out, the dishes putting away.
I cant remember how to move my feet.
I feel the ground creeping away from them,
Like a mother who has just put her child to sleep and fears him waking,
And then I am asleep, fully dreaming of air, wind, and spirit,
Loosing my breathe as I exhale this world
And wake up in another.