Sunlight drops
like a slow coin
into the open palms of the field.
We do not stir.
We are stones, we are roots,
we are the old gods
who once knew how to wait.
Heat knits the day together.
A still gathers along our spines.
Somewhere, clouds argue.
Here, the ground hums.
Stillness owns us,
not as weight,
but a widening.
An ear twitches.
A tail curls into a question.
Otherwise, the air moves more than we do,
and even birds forget to shout.
We wear the sun the way a page wears a poem:
wholly,
without trembling.
