The Weight of the Wind

Invisible hands shape the ridgeline, carving silent histories into the stone. A solitary hawk hangs suspended, trading gravity for an upward breath.

We measure the gale by what it takes— the autumn leaf, the loose shingle, but the roots feel only the deep anchor, the sudden necessity of holding fast.

Somewhere out over the darkening water, a squall gathers its dark garments. It will bring rain to the thirsty plains, a fleeting gift before moving on.