the beauty of air

If you sit under a tree 

when the sun is cooling 

from a heatwave in early August

And the shade is speckled 

and your hands are free to move

like a ballerina might 

figure eight them 

Your eyes are closed

as two lost boys pass on bicycles

and two doves chat about seeds

Even when the breeze stills

you can feel the currents 

of the air

The texture of it

Like a sea you didn't know you swam in

And when you stand 

brush off the dust and pine needles you wonder

where the current will take you next.