What the Sky Forgot to Say

I leaned into the hush of the early sky—

not dawn yet, not dark,

just that bruised-blue in-between

where breath feels older than the body.

The earth held still,

as if waiting for someone

to finally listen without needing answers.

A single crow etched its shape into the quiet.

I followed it with my eyes,

thinking about the way time folds—

how a single leaf doesn’t fall for itself,

but still falls all the same.

Everything felt wide, even the air.

I swear I could hear the clouds thinking,

and for once,

I didn’t want to speak over them.

Then, suddenly—

a shift.

Not dramatic, but deliberate—

a soft blaze crept up from the hillside,

brushed the fields in shades unnamed,

and the trees—those ancient slow dancers—

glowed like they remembered

how it felt to be fire.

I stood there longer than I should have,

shoulders unclenched,

heart untied from logic.

Not hoping, not longing—

just…

letting myself believe

that even silence can be a kind of proof.