Light Through Restless Water

The sun breaks into fragments as it hits the lake, each ripple a refraction, a small rebellion against the geometry of morning.

I watch the light rebuild itself in pieces, scattered and reformed, never twice the same— like words that travel through a crowded room, each listener hearing something new.

The herons know this language of the shifting, how to stand still within the moving current, how to be both patient and dissolving, anchored to nothing but the next breath.

When the wind comes, the whole surface trembles, a thousand mirrors shattering at once, and still the light keeps spilling down, finds its way through every crack, luminous and unafraid of breaking.