Cartography of Quiet

In the folded air of morning, a creek rehearses its name, pebbles clicked like buttons on an old coat. Mist lays a linen map across the meadow and every fence post is a small compass pointing nowhere in particular.

I walk the field where last summer braided its hay, ghost-sweet, still warm to the palm. A blackbird lifts, a comma of ink, and the sentence of the sky pauses to listen for the rest.

Under the bridge, rust blooms in slow bouquets. Water keeps its mirrored inventory: elbows of oak, a coin of sun, and a cloud that forgets its shape the way we forget the door we entered through.

Evening arrives with its soft toolbox. I pocket the hush like a smooth stone, carry it home past windows learning light, where every room becomes a shoreline and every breath is a tide.