I start with the weather, its aleatory harmonic presence and strange visibility. But remembering how its process moves from damp to dry, I change the frame and texture of my language. It couples with moments and objects. Is it an angling river or a ghost? Is the body part of nature? Is an emotion intrinsic to it or a stone from outside that produces waves? Weather deities as the origin of magic, and the influence of cloud colors on mood. Some have called it a fallacy to take up with the landscape’s coincidence. Which is why I’m building clouds, one breath at a time. Water vapor, sadness, and perhaps a synecdoche might be lighter. I hear it’s impossible to break.