Fisher of Shadows

Here, the air tastes of rusted mirrors,

and the rivers run backward,

choked with the gleam of lost things.

Kingfishers dive,

not for fish but for echoes,

their feathers a flash of blue flame

against the ash-streaked skies.

No one follows the water here—

its song is too bitter,

too full of broken promises

and half-swallowed prayers.

The trees shudder with each dive,

their blackened branches

bending toward the riverbank,

aching to catch

what always slips away.

Even the light bends wrong,

folding into shapes

that do not belong.

The kingfishers see it all,

their eyes sharp as stolen needles,

piercing the surface

where no reflection stirs.

This place has teeth,

though it never bites,

only watches,

only waits.

You’ve never been here,

but the kingfishers have.

And they remember.