Windmill for Migratory Light

At the edge of the freight yard, evening hangs like wet linen on a wire of thunder. Puddles keep small, accurate moons, and a heron lifts from rusted rails without a sound.

I walk where dandelions split the concrete, where diesel and rain braid a bitter perfume. In a shattered window, the sky rehearses its blue scales, low to high, then gone.

Somewhere north, geese stitch the dark together, a black seam pulled through silver cloth. Their calls fall through me like loose coins, bright, brief, impossible to keep.

By dawn the tracks are dry as old bones. Light turns each bolt head into a tiny bell, and the city, sleepless and enormous, begins again, carrying its weather inside.