Thought about wind becoming sullen, backs into a slurry, plump, downy evanescing into fluff. The slurry rises above dropped affixes and dead gardenias. As if. It’s in the notation. Hell on the loose — loose in reverse in spring — faces light up. Better to heal resentments buried in percussive isolation again. Hot wind dumps more ideas from desolating self-abuse to a cucumber vine growing up a net. 2 sorts of woodpecker came while I was there.