Mindful of the Wind

A shredded black string flaps from a nail in the roof of my porch.
I hammered the nail in the summer and hung a wooden wind chime from it.
It cut itself apart on the ragged edges of the holes drilled for the string.
Even without the chime, the wind blows through that same place.
One of the long bamboo shafts rolls back and forth on the porch floor when the wind is strong.
The string quietly jumps back from every breeze.
This happens when I’m not there.
It happens when I am.