Wind pushes through strange cells, like micro-climates on the run: rain, then intense heat and humidity giving way to cleansing breezes, and now it’s almost chilly, gray to the east and the west while overhead poke through patches of blue. Wind in tree branches like a sustained loud hush, like so many fingers pressed to so many hissing lips. All around me the world gropes toward a normalcy it can scarcely remember and that I can scarcely credit. We careen on, a country without leaders or a plan, inertia of the absence of imagination superheating these massy and doomful airs.