warm · summer evenings · beaufort 2
the garden wind
the garden wind belongs to evenings in july. it is the warm air the day
has accumulated, looking, at last, for the way out. it walks slowly along
the south wall, brushes the lavender, and turns into the kitchen by the
open door. it has no direction of its own; it borrows the path of the
garden.
it carries the green smell of cut grass that is no longer fresh, the
sweetness of elderflower over the wall, the
last warmth of stone. it carries small sounds from further off
— a dog, a chair, the gate. it is the wind under which the garden
is known to belong to no one.
indoors it sounds like a curtain breathing. it does not move books; it
moves the page in your lap. it is the wind under which a glass of water,
left on the table, becomes warmer by morning than the room itself. in
certain rooms, on certain evenings, it is the only thing moving.
field note · vii · we sat outside under the garden wind for an hour and had nothing to say. it had nothing to ask of us. when we came in, the kitchen smelled faintly of the day we had already finished.