Dust in Motion

Specks of dust catch afternoon light, drift through the window's amber shaft— each one a tiny world, turning, insignificant and luminous.

We don't notice them until the sun finds them, holds them up like a curator's careful hand showing us what we've been walking through.

The air is full of endings: skin cells, pollen, the breath of yesterday. We breathe it in and out, part of something vast and unnamed.

Nothing lasts here. Not the light, not the dust, not the moment when you see how beautiful the invisible really is.