The breathing, bare branched tree outside the kitchen window?

She shivers about, tense at the inhospitable world blinds and plexiglass seal frightened creatures from. Rocking from root to root — in front, in back, in the sun’s silhouette, the wind fancies her social anxious, as if her and I were not sustained by the same substance, as if our roads will not diverge. When I learn her shiver, she softens, then jerks her bough closer with the reluctant certitude of soul wanting to imagine glass as air.