Listen to poem:
Choice Begins Too Late
The wind arrives first.
The vane follows—
both pivoting on each other's breath,
each feigning command of the other.
Always angling,
always gesturing towards fate,
we mistake the wind for destiny
and proclaim its turning, as choice.
The pressure to change gathers early—
before any thoughts take root
before any words dare surface—
caught in vain, in breaths withheld.
Mouths set their vanes in advance,
jaws brace against what's unsaid,
both poised in futile readiness.
Trying to predict the swerve and swirl
the vane will inevitably take.
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