When I watch the trees move I think of the sway of your hips when you dance. In silence we are the rustling leaves, the breeze’s effortless skill at making us feel like sweaty gods. Our heads are those of ancient beasts. My fangs, my bulldog jaw, clamp down on the eternity of every moment. Seven fingers out of ten may touch you. The other three will delve far beyond touch. In every bird there is a silent stare, a prideful pleading. I press fingers into my blubber and think of the ocean and how warm it feels in December. The breeze is drawn there, then submits and is overtaken by the wind, joining its journey from end to end, like sucking toes and pulling hair. When I watch the sky gray I think of you, summer, and how nothing here fits or makes sense. Trying to make sense of things not meant for the thinking brain, just the doing one. This is the physics of heaven, hell, and where we lie in between.