Atlas of Quiet

In the morning quarry, dew beads on rusted rails, lichen maps the old iron into green weather. A fox threads through the cut, a red stitch, and the air keeps its secrets like stone.

I walk the perimeter of the reservoir, where water holds the sky upside-down. Each step sends rings outward—small bells that the wind mutes in its sleeve.

At dusk the town lights their dim constellations, kitchen windows, shop fronts, the slow turning sign. I name the streets by their smells—loam, bread, rain— and carry them home like pockets of earth.