The Weight of the Watchful
In the quiet hours of the morning, when the house is still settling into its bones, I often find myself watching the birds at the feeder. There is a singular intensity to their existence that we, in our cluttered lives, have largely forgotten.…
The Weight of Summer
There is a heaviness to the harvest. In the north, we wait months for the thaw, for the moment the earth remembers how to yield. When it finally happens, the abundance feels almost violent. It is a sudden, saturated intrusion into the grey.…
Peekaboo by Sarvenaz SaadatThe Watcher in the Weeds
I keep a small, rusted skeleton key in a velvet-lined box, though I have long since forgotten which door it once opened. It is heavy for its size, cold to the touch, and carries the faint, metallic scent of a time when secrets were kept behind…