Quata Ha (quahata)

Beneath the tarred throat of caves hangs a jaw of stalactites, teeth dripping minerals sweet as bone-dust. Water plinks in tongues I cannot translate, and I whisper back, vowels salted with fear, praying echoes learn to cradle what speaks broken.

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Lightning forked the sky into bones, a white skeleton rattling in the storm’s black chest. Thunder grumbled low, and I thought: anger is honest—it doesn’t preen for poetry; it thrashes raw, snapping its verbs into the ribs of air until even the clouds confess they’ve swallowed too much rain.

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Just finished my morning coffee and banana bread. The simple pleasures really do make a difference in starting the day off right. Time to tackle those to-do lists!

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Over the ocean swell, a pod of orcas surfaced in synchrony Their dorsal fins cut through waves like punctuation in a sentence too beautiful to end Each exhale was a memory made audible

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