This the pattern of life; a short breath here, staccato in heat and intent, and now the longer breath, the soft blue of summer sky. We breathe, a biological clock.
Pulse; the low steady rhythm that dictates our thoughts, our hungers; directs our instincts and our habits.
There are days I want to reach into the sinews of my arm and find my pulse, grip it tight, long strands of vibrant red wound about my knuckles; or crack open my rib cage, thrust my hand deep into my lungs and squeeze until I have captured all of my breath in the firm grip of my fist so I can count the number I have left.
I imagine my fingers openings, slowly, and each white-breath fluttering upwards.
(I think I have a more cunning wolf inside me today.)