Interval

The pause before the kettle screams, that temple of steam and pressure building behind glass like an unspoken word.

I've learned to love this waiting: how light slants through the afternoon's cool corners, how dust settles—small certainties made visible.

There is architecture in stillness. A bird folds its wings and becomes only breath, becomes the space where song nearly formed.

My grandmother knew this language— not in words, but in her hands held open, trembling slightly, as if cradling something invisible and dense.