Umbergust is what settles after. Charred menus, blown-down signs, a receipt still warm. We archive the second weather—the one that comes for the leftovers.
Walk into the windA café board. Half the letters blown off. Reads "CAF" now. Still points at a door.
Itemised nothing. Total: 0.00. Paid in heat. Survived because it was already black.
One page of a novel, mid-sentence. The rest is mulch. The sentence is happier alone.
Opens a gate to a lot that burned. The gate is gone. The key keeps its opinion.
City grid redrawn by where the smoke leaned. New rivers, same names.
The one that quits. You'll miss it only when the air goes still and the ash finally lands.
After the loud part, there is the long part. Ash does not fall straight. It negotiates with the draft, agrees to a slant, agrees to a ledge.
An interface should be allowed to look wind-loaded—heaped on one side, scoured on the other. Balance is a city idea.
Wind: 74° veer · Visibility: ash haze · Temp: 7°C, smouldering
Object: neon 'OPEN'
Left: the O, still warm, pointing at nothing.
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Letters arrive scorched at the corner. That is the signature.