the clouds in stratosphere shift invisibly, under the cover of low, rain-soaked spreads closer to earth;
rain-clouds come closer to find all sorts of parade, or maybe the remnants of snow; and they rain;
wind moves cyclons. or maybe the other way round;
air masses move branches, and trees, and waves, and all sorts of objects that have not been tied down;
trees… trees move in part. they ride this earth at orbital speeds, and they do it standing.
deer move in the forests, royally, knowingly – it is a mild winter;
wild boar root in the undergrowth, and slip through the bushes like ghosts, grunting to their communities;
badgers move in their sleep, resting from summer excavations.
little things jump and squeak up in the branches – squirrels and tomtits, and crows and blackbirds, and goldcrest, and countless, nameless others –
like blood moves in the veins
of a body, full of life and desire, and aimed