I was looking after dogs and I exhaled, or something in the room exhaled, or an animal in the small world snored, and I thought of wind moving through the unseen eyelet of a place, making noise like the puffing of pursed lips across the lip of a glass bottle, liquid long gone.

Think of wind and you think of things moved by the wind. Isn't this so? Think of anything and we think of what's affected.

The loudness of corn. Walls of weather moving across an Eastern prairie. Trumpet flowers.

The yellow you see here isn't the yellow of the corn itself; it's the yellow of the dryness of the stalks. How else could they grow? A dull dry yellow giving way to vibrant edible yellow. Don't mistake the kernel for the structure, the fruit for the frame.

What if weather moved in the same colours as the TV weather reports, clouds of red and green reforming in fractal seconds, leap from sea to sea, from a superb height, dark granite slap of cliffs tall as sleep, land feet first toes pointed down like a witch's pet, umbrella yourself, yourself, yourself, they'll find you as fossil, in layers of time too deep to measure in years...

In Charlottesville, local ordnances state you can not let wild grass or weeds grow more than eighteen inches tall. Overgrown life begets overgrown life. The City includes photos of a property around which the grass grows taller than is permitted. Did the photographer seek anyone's permission? We don't need permission to see. Isn't that a blessing you don't find anywhere else? You find it under every damp stone in the forest. If the pebble is damp but weeks have passed without rain, it means there must be a river nearby. This is not ecologically true.

What does a second sound like if it's fractal? How does it manifest in the thing we call the world?