the wind is a sea of pollen today
(the sun's fairies)
dusky and gusty and earthy to smell
dusting my skin like warm bits of gold
stirring on a wind over the valley
(if one could see them, the entire valley would be
a thick and warm soup
yellow fuzzy)

they have the smell of
dirt in the field which
lays, and sometimes stirs
under the noonsun

When there is no wind, they lay hot against your back
and do not move
and their soft yellow becomes hot
their comfort fuzzy becomes painful
their presence burns you
(air will move them along, though
a continual procession across the skin
they never stay)

in shade,
they float dotted, like clean water
which only sees the occasional dollop
of microscopic sunfuzz

the sleepy noon is their kingdom
a kingdom of birdnoise and windchimes
of weakly-stirring trees
and wandering paddlings of midges
sailing the open air like tiny galleys
rejoicing in the light
covering the colorless dirt fields
like a deadening blanket
crusting the tops of willow-like trees
(swaying in the sleepyness as if underwater)
rendering the world two dimensional and sunspotted

the sleeping noon seems dead

(walking inside, shade covers you
your eyes burn)