The Motion

It’s that time again. June, the tiny white
parachutes of the cottonwood seeds float
on the luminous air, drifting with no
apparent effort on no apparent
breeze, making their own carnival ride
in the supermarket parking lot. What
moves them? We feel no wind on hands or hair,
but look around: the cottonwood leaves
tilt their glossy faces ever so slightly,
and the long grass going to seed beside
the path is also nodding its assent
to some unseen whisperer. Isn’t
everything in fact moving a little,
sometimes a lot, and all the time? And
we alone imagining we could
make it stand still, what were we thinking?