On a weekend of below zero wind gusts, you mother two houseplants from Lowe’s, hoping they survive. You draw wind swirl after wind swirl while the pages of your notebook exhale out of your mouth. You are grateful for their company, the vine swirls mimicking every wind drawing you make with colored pencil. The mauve plastic planter matches your favorite colored pencil, and you’re having trouble connecting with humans right now. It’s not just olive green swirl, blue ink swirl, fuchsia pencil swirl. You are making motions and listening to the blasts. Breezes. Bursts. Torrents. Gales. Whirls. Whooshes. Squalls. Puffs. Drafts. Just trying to pick up the language. Just trying to reach tendril to tendril.

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