the wind across wide-open skies
reveals itself only in the nudging of clouds
the tousling of an unkempt field
or by sketching shapes
on an otherwise lazy river.

today it starts downstream
and brings me gifts, unasked for:
steam off my tea;
a lone duck’s quack;
tiny leaves, spinning like ice dancers
or a jumper, sans parachute,
spiralling Earthwards.