Time moves into corners, where damp stillness holds the breath of unbroken stones. The light filters through with purpose, as if the sun kneads the shadows thin.

Birds become threads, woven amidst tapestries of the air. Along the water’s edge, I can hear the whispers, tales of reeds with their thick maps, reminding us of storms and answers surprising and warm.

We touch the horizon beneath sprawling oaks,
riding gravity closer to the sky against a backdrop of blue.

• Muriel Rukeyser