The street is wet on an afternoon covered in rain & growing into an evening of hows of hours, the getting here and there. If I told you I had a blueprint of the inside of your body, would you still turn your shoulder to the wind as if it could reach inside the dark cavity of your chest and whistle, hoot hollow like an owl? I notice you do this too when the days are calm, when nothing would fly through the curled hair growing from your head.