Can you hear the sound of the indomitable wind? It breathes in great heaves through these sun-beaten leaves, so boisterous it could flow through ears to the mind. The eucalyptus’ standing in disciplined lines seem disturbed by it, and by the sun that’s lit, illuminating their aging signs. From some stark desert some miles to the south bundles of dry wind roll up, over, and down this grassy knoll that unknowingly beleaguers the skin of both infants playing with their blocks on the lawn and an older patron visiting from Dayton who naturally rises some hours before dawn. The wind can easily uproot and tear the land apart; it can dishevel a garden neat and level, desolating work to which the retiree gives their heart. The lascivious sound of the southern wind resonates past the final palm of the mind where Wallace Stevens’ bird went blind, lying low in the recesses of cranial plates. I say that that sound is no sound at all, just a loosing slip of the cerebral lip attached to a thing abstractly beautiful. But it sings its song all the same. Perhaps it is physical. It’s certainly divisible. It pierces the sky like a transparent flame.