The stormy forest spins and spins, wind in you throat, in your shoes. Whirl and whorl, you suddenly dance with branches, clash with trunks. You climb the split fir tree, not a smart idea but a wonderful one, and jauntily hoist yourself into a tree-top meadow, dirt and bugs and even little ponds in this careening place. Who is there but Frothe the jester queen, who would have guessed? You’re skysick from the swaying, but all is well because Frothe spins you counter to the movement, like a la grange point. You feel still in the storm.