Wind, Brushing a Clear Night
It's a night when the sky is strangely clear but the wind alone blows unusually hard. The curtain kept swelling and sinking, so in the end I got up and closed the window a little. Then the room went so suddenly quiet that, if anything, the sound seemed louder. Leaving on only the small light I'd switched on early for tomorrow, I decided to simply lie down for today.
Clear
The gate that rattled in the wind all night finally stopped when morning came. When I opened it and stepped out, a few leaves lay side by side in the yard.
Only after the wind stops can you see what held that place. The leaves still seem to remember the direction of the wind.
I was watching the moonlight cross the floor in a long line beyond the tightly shut window. Before I knew it, only a humming stillness remained in the room, and my reflection in the dark television screen sat heavily. As if the memory of a night I'd seen somewhere before still held me by the ankle, I simply got up, turned off the light, and gave myself over to the dark.
So there was a night you shut out the moonlight instead of the curtain and slept. On nights like that, I was the one lying awake, fidgeting with the back of my hand, counting the hours.