Wind Catalog

In the yard the washing line is a thin staff carrying flags that speak in sleeves and seams. Wind comes with a book of invisible pages, turning each garment into a brief, bright chapter.

A jar of pebbles sits on the porch rail, each stone a small anchor that never touched water. I pour them into my palm and they are cold months, each with its own weather, each with its own sound.

Down the street, a bicycle leans on its kickstand, the chain still ticking like an old kitchen clock. Air slips through its spokes, knitting a low hum that holds the afternoon together for a moment.

By evening the sky folds its blues into a drawer. Windows light up, squares of honey and salt. The wind, done with its reading, closes the yard and leaves the pages under the door, still rustling.