I had occasion two days ago to idle some minutes away sitting in my parked car, alone, with the windows down. This was in a grocery store lot. I stole time to peck a fragment of language into my phone. The air was hot but there was a breeze, and noticing the relief brought by this fresh, moving air, I soon saw the wind animating everything. As it does. And has done, since forever. (How old It must be, and what, exactly, is it?) It was easy to become lost in the metaphysics, metapoetics, metaphors. I wrote a line and then another. Soon enough I wanted to label what I was doing: poem. A hawk glided overhead and I wrote about that. Then the business of the day called me away, and I didn’t return to the words I’d made. I don’t recall them. These aren’t those words. Those words are lost. The wind never went away.