And so it goes,
the tender edge of morning,
where light brushes grasses,
blades trembling as if
they remember night.

The heron lifts from reeds,
a single, deliberate motion
that breaks stillness
but leaves silence intact.

How delicate it is,
this rhythm of breath and wing,
the hush before the hawk’s dive,
the shimmer of water
before it disappears into the air.

Life balances here,
on this scalpel edge
of beauty and oblivion,
fragile as a spider’s thread
strung between within v(e)ines,
strong enough to hold the dew.

And so it goes,
the brief, feral grace of living,
each moment a presence
so light we barely feel its weight,
so immense
we are forever undone.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​