Blue dragonflies alight on hair roots, catching the sun, merging, melting into a midsummer sky. They are here. Here they are. Not forsaken nor forbidden, but finding their flight tentatively through the humid skin of language.
It is no barrier. It is translucent and veined like a leaf that has spent the summer in shadow, hidden away with beetles and bugs. A wind settles like dew drops on the air, condenses on its branches, the branching tentacles of tongues.
So this is what air tastes like, this is cloud and earth and leaf litter scattered with inflorescence. This is essence. As if you didn’t know.