Sublime

Without wind to move the branches, the shadows looked like permanent stains, destined to remain imprinted on the pavement forever.

This process is called sublimation; tonight the snow in the yard and the ice in the creek sublime. A breeze buffets my palm held a foot from the wall. A wind like this does my breathing for me; it engenders something quick and kicking in my lungs. Pliny believed the mares of the Portuguese used to raise their tails to the wind, “and turn them full

dreamed I was a thousand birds,” he said at last.

La Llorona

The Red Shoes