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I keep reminding myself that I don’t have to solve everything today. Some answers ripen slowly.
There’s a special kind of peace that comes from walking without a destination. Just moving, just being.
Life blending with branches.
From the furnace-lit throat of noon writhes heat, a serpent ribbed in brass. It lashes dunes into spines slick with bone dust, and I stagger, teeth bright with thirst, gagging on vowels clawed open by sun’s gospel grinding marrow into light.
The older I get, the more I realize that peace is not found in things, but in moments.
At twilight’s last edge, a red fox turned toward something unseen It blinked once, as if deciding Doubt is the first sign of intelligence
The best kind of beauty is the one that doesn’t ask for attention.