Wind Apples"Here, then gone. We sense each other in the dark, hands outstretched beneath humming wires, holding on," Jeff Ewing writes toward the end of Wind Apples, an astonishingly aching collection of poems that resonate and vibrate, so struck with awe are they. His poems bear witness to the ephemeral not always as elegy, but as a way to wonder and to make monument out of fleeting moments of beauty in the natural world, or fleeting connections between people