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Across the black enamel of lake sprawls moonlight, jaws dripping silver. Pines bend to taste its bruise, tongues flicking hymns across water’s polish. Watching this, I bite air salted bright with reflection, whispering prayers nailed raw to glass.

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Dawn’s first breath exhaled gold across the rim of the earth, trembling like a shy confession. I stood still, spine threaded to silence, and thought: beginnings rarely roar—they bloom in whispers, stitching light into darkness with fingers too tender for thunder, hands patient enough to teach night how to soften.

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I sat on a rock warmed by the sun and didn’t speak for a long time. The quiet wasn’t empty—it was honest. It made space for things I usually ignore. Worries, hopes, regrets. They all rose, one by one, and the wind carried them gently away. I let it.

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Inside rainstorms, frogs rose from cracks in the earth to chant Their voices summoned nothing—but celebrated everything Not every song is a request—some are rituals

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