What the Rain Leaves Behind

The rain has gone quiet, leaving its silver coins scattered across leaves—each one catching light like a small awakening.

The earth opens its throat and sighs, releasing petrichor, that ancient perfume of stone and microbes dancing back to life. A beetle emerges from its chamber, iridescent armor still beaded with moisture.

On the windowsill, a moth has come to rest— its wings folded like hands in prayer or grief, patterned with the colors of bark, of secrets kept in grooves and weathered skin. It trembles once, translating wind into muscle memory.

We stand barefoot in the aftermath, grass cool beneath us, the world suspended between one breath and the next.