The Language of Water

The river writes in a script only the stones understand— each collision a verb, each silt deposit a noun gathering meaning in the dark.

Fog reads the morning in palimpsests, erasing the rooftops, revealing what was always beneath: the city breathing, the world softer than we remember.

Rain speaks in a dialect ancient and urgent, drumming its grammar on metal awnings, a conversation the earth has waited all drought to answer.

And the ocean keeps its own counsel, a library of blue where every wave turns the same page over and over, never quite finishing the sentence.