wind

there is a wind now. it has a direction and a strength, it wanders on its own slow walk, and the world shows it to you without a single number: leaves stream off the trees one way, campfire smoke leans, a chime on the porch speaks up. elytra and boats feel a gentle hand on them — never a hazard, just the sky having an opinion.

the chimes are the barometer. a wooden chime — sticks, string, planks — taps softly on a calm day; an iron chime rings lower and colder. in the hours before a storm the wind sets toward the weather's own bearing and climbs, and a chime goes near-continuous. you learn to bring the animals in when the porch starts singing.

storms announce themselves: the wind rises long before the first drop, swings to meet the rain, holds high through thunder, and eases when it passes. the crescendo is the whole point — and half the shelf listens now: the mill's sails race before the storm, the moths hunker above a hard blow, loose crumbs go off open ground, and a husky reads its scents upwind.