Cartography of Quiet

At the reservoir's edge, the wind counts reeds like a librarian in a ruined wing, turning each stalk to a soft-lipped page. A heron lifts—its wings a hinge of rain.

Across the fields, the irrigation pipe exhales, a long metal animal cooling in dusk. I follow the gravel road the way a bee tracks a scent it can't explain.

In the town, windows are small moons, lit from behind by soup and evening news. A dog barks at nothing and everything; even the porch swing holds its breath.

Night draws a thin blue line between houses, and the sky, a slate map without borders. I set down my footsteps like pins, marking where the quiet decides to stay.