Where the Wild Winds

The river moves like a thought unspoken,

silver-limbed and restless, carving

stories into the bones of stone.

I watch its journey, wondering if

it ever turns back, if it dreams of the hills

it left behind.

Above me, the sky shifts its colors

like an artist who cannot decide—

cobalt deepens, ember flares,

a slow unraveling of time.

The air tastes of something forgotten,

of places I’ve never been but somehow know.

A hush, sudden as a held breath.

The trees pause mid-sway, listening,

as if the world has turned its gaze.

A deer steps into the clearing,

eyes wide with the kind of knowing

that doesn’t need words.

In that moment, I am weightless—

untethered from the ticking of clocks,

woven into something vast,

something older than my name.

I close my eyes, let the wind move through me,

and I swear, for once, I understand.