Catalog of Small Weather

The city keeps a drawer of breezes folded like receipts, each one stamped with a different hour, a different mood— ink-smell, neon, last bread warm on the block.

I walk the streets to listen for the thin rain that only taps the metal lids of dumpsters, for pigeons rehearsing their sudden flight, for the sun uncorking steam from crosswalks.

Some days the wind is a shy postal worker slipping leaf-notes under parked cars; some days it is a violinist on the bridge, bowing the cables, tuning our patience.

At night, the air loosens its buttons and the river exhales, dark and slow; I mark the changes the way you do in love— by the quiet, by what does not need saying.