though the name feels too bright
for such slate-skinned hours.
The trees stand still,
their leaves unsure
whether to shimmer or rest.
Birdsong comes thin,
as if the sky has pressed
its gray hand
over the mouths of things.
Light moves slowly,
pooling in odd corners,
unwilling to rise.
And beneath it—
on the grass, along the worn paths—
a quiet gloom settles in,
soft as lichen,
sure as the tide.
No complaint,
no cause—
only a way of being,
for now.
And when it lifts—
as all things do—
even the sparrows will seem
surprised by the sun.
