It comes like a thought half-formed,
pressing its weight into soil,
soft hands smoothing edges of the world.
Everything bends to listen.
The trees bow their slow heads,
rooftops hum in low voices,
earth swells something like memory—
or relief.
Water beads along the veins of a leaf,
pauses,
then lets go.
A crow flares black against the pale hush,
carries weather in its wings.
Somewhere, the angel river stirs,
not knowing why.
Nothing runs from the rain today.
Not the cracked earth, not the sleeping roots,
not the tired hands pressed to cold windows.
Even the silence stays.
