You think of jasmine trailing over a fence, night-blooming things that make you sniff the air; on foggy days, a hint of salt from hidden seas. Rain's capelet hovers just above the earth, enough to gently film your face as if with dew or tears. For want of a clear enough opening in the sky, a comet remains a green-tailed rumor. What could you do about the whale that washed up one day, its hump a dark, ridged thumbprint on the sable beach? A humpback's song spans seven octaves, nearly the entire range of a piano—You dream of how it carries in the air: one bloom, one signature like prayer.
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