I walk the field behind the house, the one I’ve crossed for years without thinking. Today the grass feels different—stiffer, almost obstinate—as though it has learned something I haven’t. The neighbor’s shed leans a little more than last season, its roofline dipping like a tired shoulder. I stop at the low fence where two boards have begun to separate. I press them together out of habit, though I know they’ll open again. There’s a certain ease in admitting things won’t stay fixed.
stray feathers
a sparrow’s brief quarrel
with the wind
I continue until the path narrows and slips into patches of weed. I decide not to make my own way through. Instead, I stand still, waiting for something inside me to align. Nothing does, yet the quiet feels unexpectedly clear.
fence corner
a rusted nail holding
what it can