ㅁ The wind made caps of white on waves of gray. The branches swayed and thrust, like angry green, expressing yearnings, just as if the day were new, and solid, but in fact unseen. The birds out there made boring songs, the same. For them, the storm was just a little thing. A swaying branch? Well flit away - a game! Important stuff: to find a mate and sing. Meanwhile, the ghosts hold secret confabs. Yes. The weather means exactly nothing, now. As dead, they have a different view: it's less about what happens, rather, instead, how. That question lingers. What is it all for? The sea keeps surging, gnawing at the shore.
– a sonnet.
