Homooo (babicon)

The older I get, the more I appreciate mornings. They hold a kind of hope that nights don’t.

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As I sat by the river, the current whispered stories I couldn’t understand, but I listened anyway. Listening isn’t always about answers—it’s about presence. I didn’t need to know what the water said. I just needed to feel that something was speaking without needing words.

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Soft bouquets tucked into baskets.

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Beyond the frost-barbed jaw of tundra hum wolves, hymns braided in blood and bone. Snow slits silence into shards bright as knives, and I kneel, ribs salted bright with hush, biting vowels raw beneath the rusted ribs of night split open.

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