The Weight of the Wind

The rustling leaves hold court in twilight, whispering secrets the stones forget. Branches arch like ancient spines, bending beneath an invisible sky.

Dust rises in a golden haze, a momentary ghost upon the path. It settles before the night exhales, leaving only the scent of oncoming rain.

We measure time in these quiet breaths, in the sudden calm before the storm. The world spins silently on its axis, and we are anchored only by the wind.