I can hear things coming to an end. The feathers of birds flying south. The half eaten leaves of plants. The pods, pregnant with seed.
I press my thumb and forefinger into a milkweed sack and they enter, swim inside the dry belly of silk. I pinch and catch the hairs between my fingertips.
I pull the silk out and put the small clump to my lips. Brush right to left. I let go and watch the wisps lift and carry, scatter.
The wind is everywhere and so everything moves. It’s hard to see past my thick, swirling hair. Everything impossible to track.
Elizabeth Schmuhl is a writer and multidisciplinary artist whose work is published in PANK, Michigan Quarterly Review, Big Lucks, Paper Darts, and whose full-length book, Presto Agitato: A Dictionary of Modern Movement (Zoo Cake Press) will also be published by Dancing Girl Press in early 2016. She illustrates essays for The Rumpus and is currently teaching at the University of Michigan, Ann Arbor.