Where the Earth

The first thing I noticed was the stillness—

not silence exactly,

but the kind of hush that settles

when the world is holding its breath.

Grass moved like murmured stories

passed from root to root,

each blade bending without breaking,

as if it knew something I didn’t.

Clouds dragged their shadows across the dirt,

slow, deliberate, like hands

tracing old scars made beautiful with time.

A crow cut through it all—

black ink on an open page.

I stood ankle-deep in time,

watching the horizon dissolve

into itself,

colors bleeding without apology—

no lines, no certainty, just

motion and memory and meaning.

And then—

as if the sky remembered its weight,

as if the ground grew tired of stillness—

everything turned.

The wind came like a thought you can’t unthink,

fierce and sudden,

rattling fenceposts and old bones.

It tore through the tall grass,

unraveled the seams of the moment,

and stitched me into the middle of it all.

But I didn’t run.

I let it lift the parts of me I thought

had settled too deeply.

Let it carry whatever I no longer needed.

Let it teach me the language

of letting go.

And beneath all that noise,

the earth kept humming—

low and steady—

a kind of promise

that even change has a rhythm

if you learn to listen right.