here is always a wind. it is of the type that invades your body, a storm that inhabits the blood. it executes a regime over the outside, where everything is gorgeous and violent.

trees furiously whip their limbs back and forth to a steady, hypnotic rhythm. plastic bags, paper cups, airborne, indifferent, swept into motion against their nature. even indoors there is no release. the curtains retain a slight, immutable stirring. a gray tangle of dust swirls gently in the corner.

my dog rests her chin on the edge of the sofa, right next to my left hand. her warm subtle breath is all that it takes to pull me from a momentary slumber. i lift my hand, give her a short scratch behind the ears, and look into her shadowy eyes.