Archivist of Wind

I keep the wind in drawers of cedar, labels inked with the hour it changed its mind, a loop of salt from the harbor, a dry breath from the hills where seeds rehearse their leap.

At noon, the city opens like a book of shutters— street trees turning pages with their thin hands, paper cups rolling, a small parade of refuse that knows the route better than I do.

By dusk, the sky is a kiln cooling to cobalt, and the wind, newly shy, slips between houses, combing smoke from chimneys, smoothing the day’s crease, leaving the porch swing to count the dark.

Night stores it all: the quickened pulse of rain, a whistle under the door, the hush of distant trains. I file these murmurs where sleep can find them, so morning wakes with a story on its tongue.