Weather Station for the Unsent

The road loses its gravel and turns to lichen, a thin ribbon of silence unspooling uphill. Anemometer arms are frozen mid-gesture, as if the wind stepped away to learn a new name.

Inside, dust has the patience of snow. Maps curl like dry leaves in a book left open. The radio hums a small, steady blue, waiting for a mouth to return to it.

I touch the glass, the breath fogs and clears. Outside, a storm rehearses in the distance, clouds buttoning their dark coats one by one. Even the static sounds like someone listening.

I write my forecast on the back of an old chart: chance of mercy, late light, a thaw of locks. The ceiling ticks with cooling pipes and stars, and the sky, for a moment, replies in Morse.