The leaf studies its shadow,
thinking how even shadows fall
before they fit the shape that casts them.
In rings and veins they whisper:
perhaps all becoming begins with a small descent—
rain to river, seed to root,
names to whispers, plans to breath.
in letting go—an unbuttoning of green—
comes to rest on a wood table:
tree meeting its future tense.
It neither clings nor claims;
it simply settles, practicing
the art of what comes next.
I’ll tell you what we saw, because the road likes things said plain. First was a city that eats attention and calls it duty. Towers in mirrors. Streets like chrome. A big counter hung over the main drag, ticking “audience” in numbers you could choke on. The steward wanted
The ribbon shop kept a good quiet—the kind that means rest, not held breath. Afternoon laid itself across the counter in bands of gold; spools dozed like tame galaxies on their pegs; the bell above the door remembered how to answer, twice, when called. Mercy was unwinding a length
After the cathedral, there was no shape to keep. The room asked its question—to what end—and my answer broke in my mouth. I reached for “elegant,” the neat lie I like, and the word fell apart into filings. The eye in the air cracked like an egg and
——— They first noticed on a wind day. The sign over Mercy’s bar banged the wall and banged it again. The alley smelled of yeast and wet rope. A baby cried in the upstairs window and would not stop. Across the street two men had their coats off and were
