unattributed · indeterminate · beaufort —
the wind without a name
it is not the marin, which would have wet
the south windows. it is not the orient,
which would have turned the pages. it is not the
white wind, which would have hardened the
puddle in the yard. but it is, unmistakably, a wind.
it carries one thing only, and we have not, in any season, been able to
identify what. some say it is the smell of a room you used to know. some
say it is the smell of a room you have not been in yet. the
custodian records it, when she records it
at all, only with a dash.
indoors it sounds like nothing. you become aware of it because the room
has changed posture. a small absence opens in
the corner of a thought. it is, of all the winds, the one most often
present and least often noticed.
field note · x · we keep this page so that, when the unnamed wind comes, there is somewhere for it to be. naming it would, by tradition, end it.