The wind started before sunrise, low and steady like someone dragging a rough hand across the valley. By midmorning, it had gathered confidence, pushing grit through every gap in the old storefront windows. The gallery hummed softly with the pressure. Frames along the west wall clicked once, then settled, as if reminding me how much glass stands between order and weather.
Outside, Main Avenue tilted into it. People leaned forward without realizing it, jackets ballooning, voices shortened to half-sentences. A sandwich board from the café across the street went down twice before they gave up and carried it inside. The sound of paper skidding along pavement kept time with the traffic light.
I wedged the front door open with a small stone, knowing it would rattle anyway. The gusts came in pulses—enough to lift a print if I wasn’t watching. Dust moved through the air in thin curtains, not visible until the light caught it. The wind carried faint smells of exhaust, river silt, and something metallic, as if it had scraped itself raw on the highway guardrails.
By afternoon, the rhythm of it felt almost deliberate. Every gust erased what the last one had shaped. A man stepped off the curb and lost his hat; another chased a receipt halfway down the block. No one cursed. The town has learned that March belongs to motion.
When the day ended, I swept the entry again. Sand, leaves, a single ticket stub from the train—all proof of passage. Holding ground isn’t resistance; it’s maintenance. The wind keeps the lesson simple: everything loose will move.