Archive of the Wind

At first light the city exhales its wires, a slow braid of antennae combing the sky. Wind threads through them like a librarian, turning pages of air with careful hands.

On the river, boats are notebooks left open, their margins stained with the ink of sun. Bridges hum as if remembering a tune learned long ago from the throats of cranes.

I walk under balconies hung with dew, each droplet a seed for an unnamed story. The wind edits my footsteps into soft erasures and carries the draft to the hills to be kept.