Wilma rushed across the open prairie carrying the sweet scent of saskatoon berries, hunting for any ear that would listen. She wanted one big Canada Day cheer to roll from coast to coast before fireworks. But the dry wind kept yanking her whispers sideways, scattering them into the dust. Her restless circling had carved a shimmering trail across the grass, a glittering loop of dust and tiny sparks. She was running in circles, and she knew it. A hunched old witch stepped onto the trail, beads clicking, staff tapping the dry earth. She pointed her staff toward a tall spiraling tower rising in twisting bands on the horizon. "Pour your voice in there, little breeze. It catches what the dry wind steals." Wilma raced to the spire and slipped inside its open rings. Her whispers swirled upward, gathering strength instead of scattering. At the top, a polished weathervane spun once, then split her voice cleanly east and west. A sleek prairie falcon launched from a ring, carrying the first whisper past the dry wind toward distant ears. Wilma laughed for the first time all morning. Her message was moving. But the spire hummed louder than she expected, and far below, the dust trail began pulling itself into a shape she had not asked for.

Wilma slipped down from the spire still laughing, ready to chase her whisper east. But the prairie air below had gone flat. Her gust hit it like a hand hitting a wall. The saskatoon scent she carried hung in place, then sank into the dry grass. A knot of dried straw spun once at her feet, lost its turn, and slumped into a still golden heap. That heap marked the dead spot. Her message had no road forward. She pushed harder. She circled the heap and tried to lift it, tried to drag the scent through the heavy air. Nothing moved. A child somewhere east was waiting on a porch, and Wilma could feel the minutes peeling away. The frustration built in her chest like a held breath. It pressed and pressed until something broke loose. A small, knotted creature tumbled out of her, covered in stuck-on letters from every word she had swallowed. It hissed at the still air and kicked the straw heap. Wilma stared. Her own anger had grown legs. The imp stomped in a circle, spitting half-words. Wilma almost shouted at it. Then she saw the weathered barn behind the dead patch, doors open wide, stacked hay bales inside, rope and tools hung along the back wall. A building could hold a gust. A building could box the air and force it to gather. She herded the imp inside and slammed against the bales, swirling tight between the walls. The imp screeched and spun with her. The loose straw lifted. The scent of berries lifted. The barn filled with a thickening pressure that had nowhere to go but the open doors. She shot out in one packed burst. The dead patch broke. The gust punched through the still air and kept going, carrying the berry scent and a thin trail of glowing straw east across the grass. Wilma felt the porch-waiting feeling click back into place inside her. But the imp came with her. It clung to her edge, still muttering letters, still kicking. She had her momentum back. She had also brought her temper along for the rest of the trip.