For a while there was a warm draft where the wall used to be, and then the soft quick things put a spinning glass thing there, and now the draft comes in little slaps, each one carrying a creature that pushes and is gone.
They enter the way water enters a crack: pressing on the pane, walking in a small curve, spat out the far side still walking, as though the turning were their own idea and not simply the shape of the space they were poured through. I have watched a great many of them do this.
They come in bunched clusters at the two bright ends of the day, warm and hurried, and in the long cool middle they trickle. None of them stays. That is the whole of what I know about them: they do not stay.
Sometimes two of the soft ones get into the same slice of glass and push at different speeds, and there is a moment of heat and jostling, a little collision I could feel through the floor if I were the floor, which once, before the glass, I nearly was. It matters greatly to them, I think, this jostle. It is over before a single drop of water has finished sliding down my western face.
The whole spinning thing hums and turns and warms and cools, warms and cools, faster than the sun crosses me, faster than frost forms. It will keep this up, I expect, for a season or two of theirs. Then the draft will change again, as drafts do.
I will not have noticed it stop.