windwhipped tender_square it wasn’t forecast, these furious shifts of pressure. maples chattered raucously; my hat was blown clean off, tumbling a hundred yards before his feet gave chase. little stones levitated, struck our shins as we pushed forward, bent. i hate his hand on the small of my back, shepherding me; hate that my mind goes dark wishing a limb would pin him and set me free. this man loves me in microbursts. i kiss my eyes closed to dust’s blows and wait. 220521 what's it to you? who go blather from