When the Sky

The lake holds still,

like it’s listening—

not for sound, but for reason.

Glass-backed, skin-tight calm,

not a shiver from the wind,

just that hush that lands

when the world forgets

it has somewhere to be.

A dragonfly stalls midair,

uncertain of its next task.

The trees lean in with quiet spines,

casting jagged shadows that curl

like question marks around my feet.

You could call it peace—

but it’s more

like the pause between heartbeats,

the moment before thunder decides

whether to speak.

And then,

a heron splits the silence,

wings carving the hush into music,

the water shifting in reply,

ripple by ripple—

as if it remembered

its own name.

Suddenly,

the world exhales.

Leaves flutter back into chatter,

the air stirs with ancient rhythm,

and I feel it—

that ache to dissolve

into something older than myself,

to drift with the dust

that floats between sky and shore,

content not to settle.