Atlas of a Passing Wind

I unfold a paper sky on the kitchen table, its creases riverbeds where yesterday still runs. The kettle whispers, and the room learns weather.

Outside, the map is written in flying leaves, a compass of sparrows swiveling toward no north. Their voices pin the air with brief, bright needles.

I mark the gusts by listening to the porch swing, the way it keeps time with an unseen drummer. Even the fence posts lean to hear the rumor.

By evening, the atlas is a soft mess of folds, thumb-smudged and warm from my persistent hands. I close it, and the house exhales into quiet.