The Sound Between Wind and Music

The world don’t always knock—

sometimes it leans in,

all hush and shoulder,

like a colt not yet named

resting its weight against your ribs

just to see if you’ll hold.

You’ll miss it

if you blink too loud.

It's the slip of honey along a blade,

the air right before the screen door sighs—

when someone’s coming home

but hasn’t yet.

There’s a sound to it.

Not music, not wind,

but the space between both,

where a thought might go to be born.

It's the way dew climbs a baby calf’s lashes,

how it holds there—trembling but unafraid—

like it believes in mornings.

You’ve got to walk barefoot through it.

Not because it asks you,

but because your soles remember.

There’s a crack in everything—

yes, but what they forget to tell you

is sometimes it’s where the sun slips in

before it knows it’s morning.

Your breath will change,

not deeper—wider.

Your hands will stop asking for proof.

Let the creek touch you

without taking.

Let the light land

and leave nothing bruised.

You are not the silence.

You are the thing that listens.

And that?

That is what begins.