Calibration of the Horizon

The morning calibrates itself— wind combs the lake into parallel lines, and a lone buoy is a period placed at the end of a sentence of fog.

I carry a pocketful of moth wings, soft as unkept promises, into the field; they rustle when I name the clouds, an unasked choir that steadies my breath.

In a barn, light sifts through slats like flour, dusting the backs of tools and sleeping hay; each beam is a ladder I never climb, each rung a rung of remembered heat.

By dusk, the horizon loosens its belt, letting the day slip down in quiet folds; the water keeps the sky's last word and learns how to say it without a voice.