The Hollow's Breath

The fog settles in the hollows like breath caught in the throat of the valley, heavy with the scent of wet pine and the slow decay of autumn's fire.

A single crow pulls the sky apart, its cry a jagged line across the gray, while beneath the bruised earth roots blindly seek the water's pulse.

Here, the hours forget their names, dissolving into the monochrome wash of dusk, leaving only the quiet hum of the dark and the shape of things unseen.