The Silver Corridor

The sun becomes a wedding ring, slipped onto the finger of the moon. The birds forget their scripts, dropping mid-song into the sudden indigo.

A cold wind stirs from the shadow's edge, brushing the silvered leaves of the oak. The world is held in a sapphire lens, distorted, breathless, and strange.

Small crescents dapple the garden path, pinhole ghosts of the vanishing disk. We stand in the center of a celestial hush, waiting for the return of the amber day.