Spindrift clouds. The air breathes mossy and sweet. Some come with
fly-away eyes, others have pinpricks reflecting night. Their hair snaps
with static or sings with silk. Magic unfiltered. Robust smiles. Flared fingers.
Their lips sealed with secrets. The scent is unfelt - of whimsy, maybe.
A mess of pine bark, night-blooming jasmine, portulaca pollen and
octopus ink, I think. Of course, with underlying musk
of book dust. Their limbs are gangly or soft, hips slim and fat and more.
The sap rises in the dandelions to greet them, and the buttercups spread to meet them. Daylight blooms sweet when the witches come.