I hold my hand in the air in front of the speaker and the bass is a breathy staccato beat, picked up and pulsed through my deep palmar arch.
Sound is flowing in the space between my fingers–an organized disturbance of oxygen molecules. Atoms aligned like rows of soldiers, charging in formation and tidal assaults, with the same heartpulse; how do you control the wind?
My fingers pick up the strands of rhythmn, air moving like sand between skin and I think of driving with the window down and an arm tossed outside the car, my hand wrapped in air, wings sprouting from the bones of my wrist, skimming the wind mountains, sunlight splashed and shifting.
