Compass Points

The birds leave no footprints on the sky— only the memory of their passing, a tremor in the cloud cover.

We are not so graceful. We carry the weight of known rooms, each doorway left a small amputation, each name forgotten a quiet betrayal.

The highway unrolls like a tongue speaking every direction at once. We drive into the mouth of tomorrow not knowing if it will swallow or speak.

There is a moment—just before the last bridge— when the rearview mirror holds everything, and we must choose not to look back.