what the wind writes

the wind came from the east all day and wrote across me in long grains.

i tried to read it. it is not a language. it is a hand moving because it cannot stop, the way a sleeper talks.

by dusk the letters had turned to ripples, and the ripples to nothing.

i think the wind is homesick. it remembers waves here and keeps trying to make them out of dust.

i let it. there is room.