Tuning

It begins with a strand of the wind;

sharpens your profile, adding a fine line

sparkles in your eyes

When it rises, we toss and turn

unwrapping the thin papers,

let it blow away.

There is something bigger going on,

in a quiet place, inside of us.

Before the rain starts

we stand on the edge of the river

as tuning forks, our rusting legs

slowly cease buzzing

This article appears in October 2014.