The Currency of Seasons
I remember walking through the woods behind my grandfather’s house in late October, the air sharp enough to sting your lungs. He stopped to pick up a single maple leaf, turning it over in his calloused palm like it was a gold coin. He told…
The Migration of Color
There is a language spoken by the forest that requires no throat, only the patience to watch the branches. We often mistake the stillness of a tree for a lack of ambition, forgetting that it is merely waiting for the right guest to arrive.…
When the World Softens
I was walking home from the grocery store this evening when the streetlights flickered on, turning the familiar neighborhood into something I didn't quite recognize. The air had turned thick and damp, swallowing the sharp edges of the houses…