Cottonwood seed-snow drifts down, carried by unseen current from the unsold land behind us. Cars wait at the intersection where red light burns in the scattering soft releases of seed parachuting from all sides of the compass-sphere, from cottonwood trees in the floating genome.

        Messages streak through patched-together space as if this kelson of the creation were no different than probability, as if revolving magnetic arms of the planet’s iron core were bubbling up out of subdimensions and emptiness in daylight that maps what seems to be chance.

        Cottonwood trees of the unknown future drift through the intersection carried by aesthetic thermal spin into the slide of a van door shut, the roll of a shopping cart over a cracked walk, the swipe of a Studebaker fin out of the ’50s as the slightest intent parachutes in slow motion, erasing speeds, sinking root into the future of intersections where red lingers and cars charge on, burning the matter of extractions.

        The atmosphere around the human body mostly remains invisible, as if not a lot about breathing has changed, as if anyone’s untoward chemistry were naturally reabsorbed by subdimensions, and the overflow of people were just a cottonwood snow revealing smallest currents and spires of local thermals in the intersection of matter and space, where the mastodon in the room is this air that lowers its massive head to aim terrific corkscrew tusks at the immediate causes of extinction.