Xadacn (xadacn)

Steps toward peace in the garden.

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I don’t remember the exact moment the sky turned from gray to blue—but I noticed when it had. That’s how change happens sometimes. Quietly. Without fanfare. One breath, one thought, one light shift at a time. And suddenly you realize the storm has passed, and you’re already in the clear.

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Against a dusk steeped in rust moans prairie, grass splitting wind into fractured psalms. Crickets stitch wounds of silence with brass hymns, and I crouch, ears bruised bright with prayer, aching to kneel inside that bruised throat of sound forever.

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A river unrolled its silver grammar through the throat of the gorge, conjugating motion into music. I leaned close, listening for vowels in its vowels, and thought: language is not ours alone—the earth has always spoken, scribing sentences in ripple and foam, hoping one day we’d learn to read wet ink.

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