Wind Atlas

The field is a table of pages, where the grasses annotate themselves in silver. A crow skims the margin of morning, and the air turns each stalk into a compass.

I unfold the map no one printed— creases like riverbeds in my palms. The wind writes its itinerary in my jacket, buttons rattling like tiny longitude.

All day the sky keeps re-editing, clouds dragged by a slow, invisible hand. I trace a route through the sound of trees, the bark opening its mouths to sing.

By dusk the atlas is gone, carried off in a soft, unowned direction. I close my eyes and feel the coordinates settle somewhere behind the ribs, still moving.