this afternoon when the wind rose.
.
.
the grass ocean pours over and over.
one windswept wave after another;
a sea of single stems
bowing froth.topped heads,
politely
turning an ear from the wind’s spiteful tongue.
.
.
This voice,
a bug in a box, a cave-call echo
swept greedily free from the five fathom fronds,
raging, raging.
snap.twigs scatter skiddy leaves bashfully,
hush.
hedges shrug, what is it to them but
a birds~wing bough shake?
.
.
You too should watch this,
tightly wound in your silver case
ruby-balanced and ruled by science,
angry at the wind.
.
.
tiny nothing of things 
Compelling and commanding. Tempted to reappraise my tenuous relationship with the wind. Perhaps the trick is to recline. An opportunity to taste and smell the earth: to make the mind to body as the bug is to the shrub.
Reminds me of the Nina Simone song “Wild as the Wind”.
Music, there is just an undeniable musical power which sweeps through the language and makes an Ebby poem.
oooo this is so good! apart from the pure sonic delight this is Art reminding Science what she’s missing … wonderful concept, superb writing!