Refracted

The storm recedes on its own momentum, leaving behind a world washed clean of certainty. Now the sun angles through what remains—each droplet a small prism, each puddle a mirror that lies.

I watch light bend at the edge of clouds, colors I have no names for spilling across wet stone. A bird shakes itself, sending scattered light like coins flung into air.

The air holds its breath—that pause between rain and clarity, when the world is still deciding what it means to be dry, to be seen.

Nothing is the same color twice.