West Wind, I.

1.
If there is life after the earth-life, will you come with me?
Even then? Since we’re bound to be something, why not
together. Imagine! Two little stones, two fleas under the
wing of a gull, flying along through the fog! Or, ten blades
of grass. Ten loops of honeysuckle, all flung against each
other, at the edge of Race Road! Beach plums! Snowflakes,
coasting into the winter woods, making a very small
sound, like this

    soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

as they marry the dusty bodies of the pitch-pines. Or, rain
—that gray light running over the sea, pocking it,
lacquering it, coming, all morning and afternoon, from the
west wind’s youth and abundance and jollity—pinging and
jangling down upon the roofs of Provincetown.