The Garden's Quiet Persistence

The garden settles into its own breathing, shadows pooling beneath the jasmine. A heron stands in the shallow place, one leg folded like a question mark.

The day doesn't end so much as dissolve— color bleeding into color, each flower releasing what it held: fragrance, pollen, the weight of reaching.

I watch the bees return to their dark house, their wings still humming against the silence. They have made a thousand journeys and will make them again tomorrow.

The light persists in the smallest places: caught in a raindrop, pressed into the wrinkle of a leaf, refusing to disappear entirely.