The Afterlight

The sky has finally exhaled, leaving its heavy silver on the eaves. The air is thick with the scent of wet stone and the quiet collapse of water into earth.

The windows are streaked with the memory of a thousand tiny, frantic fingers. Now, only the slow, fat drops remain, hanging like crystal fruit from the maple.

A pale, amber light breaks through the grey, spilling across the floor in a long, cool stroke. The world is a mirror, clean and startled, holding its breath before the first bird calls.

There is a grace in this sudden pause, the way the dust has been driven home. We sit in the hollow of the finished storm, listening to the house settle into its bones.