Salt Flat at Dusk

The white plain holds the sky like a mirror no one thought to hang. Every cloud doubles itself below, weightless, aching with its own reflection.

A crow crosses the far edge of the world, dragging its shadow behind it like something it cannot put down. The distance swallows both.

I came here to feel small and found instead a different arithmetic— how the silence multiplies outward, how stillness can be a form of velocity.

When the sun touches the rim, the salt turns the color of a wound healing. Not beautiful, exactly. Something older. The light grateful to be received.