THE WIND
Jack Galmitz

The wind parts the last red leaves from the tree to the grass.
A newspaper saturated with last night’s rain I can see through three pages.
I hear my neighbor beyond the fence; I recognize his footsteps. He mutters something about cats or skunks when he moves the pail for garbage.
Car wheels on the wet street I don’t turn my head. A mother with a car full of children she transports to school before work.
The clock is a bell calling worshippers.
I hear distance in a dog’s bark. A stranger passing a house when it doesn’t stop.
On the street a couple stops. They’re conjoined twins. The man snaps open a small leather box. The woman’s face a fox. It’s a silent movie. I guess the script they’re reciting.
The kettle whistles. I listen to the shuffle of my slippers on the carpet. The sound of pouring water in the potted cup in soothing. So is the steam. The Chinese tea leaves are floating. It’s hot to hold, but I manage.
Then, the indistinguishable sounds of construction. A pounding, drilling, a bulldozer tearing up soil and stones and the swivel and dropping it into a truck. Lumber being dumped?
I take some pills to take a nap. Lately, there’s a pattern to it. I’m somewhere I’ve never been and the trains and roads that take me home are no longer there.
There’s animals, too. Much larger than usual. Huge. They’ve done no harm, but their disproportionate size terrifies.
Since my wife is gone, I live with white noise.