***

The man’s fingers shake as he lifts the matchstick, flame dangerously feeble, to the rolled cigarette that slopes from his mouth. He has covered the match with his hand but the wind still manages to get through and the flame is gone, before its purpose is complete. The shoulders of the man sag and he sighs. Faint steam, almost identical to smoke, leaves his mouth.

The man reaches into the matchbox and pulls another match. He lights it, but the wind extinguishes it once again. There is only one match left in the box. The man takes it out, holding it tightly. The touches it to the side of the box, but then he stops, closes his eyes and mutters indistinguishable words under his breath. The words mingle and interweave in his shaggy beard. From there they are picked up by the wind, for only it has the right to hear them, it is their addressee. Words and wind mix together and for a moment the air is still, awaiting the response of the wind. Then the blowing resumes.

The man goes with the wind. Two tramps with a similar purpose. The cigarette shines and trembles happily in his mouth. A moment was all he needed.