She doesn't listen.
Waves rise too highly, churn too quickly, blue the sky too darkly.
Salt and seaweed of the ocean rest on her palate though she cannot even see it past these hills of concrete. Scents of beach and brine knead her elbows and knees, permeate her body, making her feel permanently full. She can almost feel a rounded belly. This sky warns of more rain than she believes and she wants to rip up rip open, make a jagged tear in the space in front of her with her teeth to release a wall of wind and water and relieve this anticipation. It's March, the month that is as vigorous as itUs name.