The Quiet Edge

The morning frost holds tightly to the sill, a fragile glass that breaks beneath the sun, leaving only water on the painted wood. We watch the day dismantle what the night constructed.

Across the field the heavy pines are still, their shadows stretching thin and growing sharp, like needles woven deep into the thawing earth. The silence here has weight enough to hold.

A single heron lifts above the reeds, its gray wings pulling slow against the wind, a steady rhythm measured out in empty sky. There is nothing more required of the light.