just awoken in that morning, like a dream, to look out the window, eyes transfixed on the image of a slug in the garden as if twere not itself as if its path and trail of slime were something shining in the morning light then frozen by the wind which is cold though also it brings me the memory of dawn the memory of time to see it move across the trees to hear it move across the trees as early wind before it sloops and drops like a skieer down the mountaintop and i see big swaths of hairy trees leaf-topped begin to brush like the brush of wind like the mother's brush on the babe's hair but look! beneath the waves which crest like wind above the sea look! as if flown above by a plane where the waves stand immovable in the hard-stretched measure of time look! like the mountains seen long distanced gazed beside the fast moving wires of the city from the train yet those mountains do not move, do they not? both the babe and the writer transfixed but doth imagination like a crutch which lets the babe touch see and play with the world does the playing thus stop when the babe grows and learns to touch and take and love and jump and fall? tis thee i see beneath these gusts of wind tis thee like i and you like two birds flying and swopping downwards then up again does not my imagination hold me like a crutch does not it also let me dream of better worlds perhaps! enchanted by the breeze, the light, that crutch of mine withholding sheds and becomes something greater, divine perhaps these words are what i bring to you and me but fear of speaking to deaf ears like the soccer playing shooting, kicking, jumping on an empty stage but just in joy like that of the child to run and jump and flip and all those things which fill her heart with joy but look! to the right, she looks for her mother but her mother is gone or her father is there but forlorn in the day's work! whom does she look to next? abovve a bird flies and swoops does it also seek our eyes those who dwell on land to hold it and even in the cold which i can only imagine is frigid in the winter winds it is warmed by the love of those bound to earth closer to the core of the earth which is warm which is lava which erupts through its cores by dane of deed and circumstance and i biking to a friends in the cold hand grips of winter which touch my face as if to freeze am i now writing verse? am i now flying through the city streets? is there a warm tunnel which brings me to you and look here, the baby dreams of tunnels that bring it.. like the first tunnel from which it arose, look, light! at the end of it! and death just memory of birth perhaps to remember is to know, to forget... like wind forged in the belly of the sky, or the beast, or the bounty looming above the fate of the poor man's feet aye, timothy! i saw you there burnt and broken neath the winds of the city, which rush through buildings in one fell swoop like the leaf taken by the highest, creaking tree, that descends on the mountaintop and look! it lands, but before it does, it does a gesture in the falling wind as if to say here! watch me descend and watch that tree from which i came from one high and mighty on the mountain top now laid on its side but now showing what it couldn't show before to man the vastness of its roots in wild patterns in the earth touching other trees strong and mighty but like a glacier beneath the sea only known by its top appendage but beneath that veil i was wise and large and with wild pattern unbeknownst at times even to myself even to the wind which while graceful and waking in the early dawn of mornign and coming cold from the river to the city before it hits across its buildings it shall never know the under ground or shall it as it warms as it flows above the magma of the mount warming then heading upwards again then become rain then falling back to earth? reader... i pause for your reply.