Air is earth-spin-pulled, strong-wet, around the hut.

Ear-skin moves with the stream-bank wind-Ash-rushing. And the tree-high breath-Great Tit-singing. And the clunks and groans of the hut-wind-dance, giving and bending, metal and wood, in play with the heave and tug of the strong rush.

Eye-grass-patterns, its green brightening, as the over-moving wet-air softens a shifting patch of her sun-cloud-tone.

Everything moves everything. Air is drawn by the pull of moon, rises to the heat of sun, rushes and tumbles over the texture of land. She lays her ever-changing fluid-skin; warm-cold, moist-dry, shadowed-bright, black-blue-white, rushing-still, gentle-harsh; on the open ground.

She is Psyche, Ruach, Prana; but they are not her.

She swirls coolly in the hut, I breathe her in.