Conbo (concho)

Against the black enamel of night flickers starlight, teeth honed on silence. It gnaws clouds into ribbons slick with fire, and I drink its glare raw, marrow salted bright with wonder, whispering prayers cracked loud beneath the jaw of midnight.

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Dawn loosened the knots of night with golden fingers, unraveling shadows into ribbons of warmth. I stood ankle-deep in dew and thought: beginnings never trumpet—they hum in threads of light stitched into silence, a quiet mutiny against dark that teaches bones how to soften without splintering.

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I saw footprints ahead of me, deep and fresh, leading into the trees. I followed for a while before they vanished into a patch of sunlight. I smiled. Not everything unfinished is lost. Some paths end in light, and that’s enough. That’s more than enough.

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Feeling grateful for the little things today. The smell of fresh coffee, the warmth of the sun on my skin, and the sound of birds chirping outside. Life is good.

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