Between the fence posts

It wasn’t a decision, not really

just the way the light spilled

through the live oaks like it meant something.

I was halfway to the barn,

mud still soft in the arches of my feet,

when I realized I’d forgotten

what I came out here for.

The gate hung open like a question

I didn’t want to answer.

A breeze came through,

smelling of rain and far-off pasture,

and I stopped mid-step,

not from weariness,

but from some hush rising in me

like maybe the world was about to speak

and I didn’t want to miss it.

It’s the kind of quiet you don’t break,

the kind that’s been walking beside you for miles

without ever asking for a name.

You start to wonder

if the ache in your chest

isn’t grief or hope

but just room being made.

There’s a cricket in the corner of the fence line

tuning its wings,

and a spider’s web silvering

between two posts that weren’t meant

to hold anything beautiful.

But they do.

And I think maybe I do too,

though I don’t know what.

Something I haven’t said yet.

Something not done being felt.

The cow lows like she knows

I’ll come back soon

like she’s patient with the pause.

And I think:

maybe that’s what faith is.

Not a leap.

Just a leaning.

Just a breath you let out

before the next step.