The wash of the wind diving down and wispingmy face as I lay on my backin the field of some kind of grain.
Yes, the wash is cool with the odd hint—pulse—ofwarmth mixed in randomly, cooling my forehead, tickling my cheeks, breezing and dryingmy eyes, so blink.
I forget to breathe,[chuckle] I just rememberedthat I forget to. Yes, thinking thewash itself will creep into mylungs, fill them, raise my ribs, send the oxygen tothe far reaches of my skin, but I’d forgottento breathe. And while I don’tdoubt the potency or willingness ofthe wind to fill me fully, I must remember to breathe.
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