Archive of Wind

The town keeps its radios in the attic, wooden ribs sighing under late heat. When the wind comes, it sorts the stations— news, hymn, static—like seeds in a jar.

I walk the empty soccer field at dusk, sprinklers breathing a cold, metallic rain. The goalposts are pale insects, thin legs writing the air with no alphabet.

In the library, a box of maps smells of rain that never fell here. We unfold a river and the room fills with a blue that isn't water.

Night settles, a tarp pulled over the streets. Somewhere a window is left open, and the wind steps inside, reading our names in the loose pages of sleep.