Backward, then forward, a catapult dynamic of the mortal arm. Like an arrow from a bow, a stone from a slingshot, it drifts from the grasp of a cusped palm. With fingers crawling over it like a viral ­infection, the orb is circuited in clockwise motion upon leaving the paw. As the wind harnesses it like freelance dust, a force is jolted upon the crimson hems. The pearl is cast as its bloodshot stitching revolves like a globe on its axis. Only natural compulsion could direct it now. An erect trajectory leads the gyrated pellet at a first moment’s glimpse. Appearing ever so pure in its soaring, the askew rotation of the bindings ­undertakes the journey. Initially, it appears linear. But blink and one may witness a quiver of disorientation as what was once so far in front of one’s eyes is now displayed before one’s ankles. Called: strike three.