Between the Turning of Leaves

The creek moves slow, yet it does not wait,

slipping over stone and time alike.

A heron stands, poised between moments,

its shadow stretching longer than its wings.

Somewhere, a leaf lets go—

a quiet descent, unnoticed but certain.

The air thickens, a hush before the shift.

Everything tilts, edges blur—

light bends in the ripples,

and for a breath, the world unravels

into something softer, something unseen.

Then—

a gust, a rush, the heron lifts—

silvered feathers slicing the sky.

The water remembers its path,

the leaf finds its place among the roots,

and I stand, hands empty, heart full.

What was lost was never gone,

only waiting to be seen again.