Whistle in the Sash

The glass held the evening chill. I rested my chin against the wooden sill, right where the sash left a hairline seam open to the dark. A draft pressed inward. It produced a dry, faint whistle that rose and dipped against the frame. Down below, streetlamps cast steady amber pools along the asphalt. A loose brown leaf scraped across the curb, spun twice, and stopped against a tire. I stayed anchored to the painted wood, letting the cool air flow over me. Night moves at an acceptable pace.