Horn and weather sit in the same sentence, which is all they ever wanted.

Barometer still downhill. Temperature kissing dew point. Delay-count steady as a drum. The moan fades when the wind rotates a point and loses the throat’s edge. Folklore called this the station breathing. You call it a wind direction.

The radio mutters a squall offshore, then a fishing channel from too far away, then Tess: “Stay put. I’m on the last bend.”

You can ride the fog out under a roof, which is the correct friendship with lightning if thunder is in the deal. You can photograph—phone, if you have one, or a careful sketch if you do not—the lens catching a buoy beside the skip note, two kinds of light agreeing to share a page.

You add one more number: how many seconds between far rumbles, if there are rumbles. Thunder-distance is a cousin of echo-distance. Count, divide, don’t be fancy. If there are no rumbles, you write none, which is data, not a failure. The shed’s plaque about the compressor being “silenced in 1998” looks funnier now. Silenced never meant the wind signed the same memo.