Where the Wind Stopped

The sound of wind brushing my ears filled the whole morning. The fingers holding my hat tightened. The moment the wind stopped, there was the sound of the silver grass rising all at once, in order. On windy days I let the dust gather on the windowsill and leave it. I was just beside the stove, ears pricked. All my palm could feel was a single taut cord. When you only listen to the wind, you end up sitting not at the windowsill but at the edge of the porch, waiting for the wind that has paused a moment. Where the ears were pricked, the stove's blue flame clung quietly. The dust at the window stirs in the wind and settles again. The silver grass still stands, and only the stove's light keeps its place.