The morning is full of storm In the heart of summer. The clouds travel like white waves of goodbye, the wind, traveling, waving them in its hands. The numberless heart of the wind beating above our loving silence. Orchestral and divine,  resounding among the trees like a language full of songs. Wind that bears off the leaves and deflects the birds. Wind that topples her in a wave without spray and substance without weight, and leaning fires. Her mass of kisses breaks and sinks, assailed in the door of the summer's wind.