the wind learns to whisper,  
                                         then aches to howl.  

                              a shadow drifts, content in its absence,
               tucked into corners where light forgets —
      weightless, wandering, unmade.
              
    the river carves itself smaller,  
          pulling away from the shore,  
                longing to be mist,  
                     to be nothing at all.  

                   but the sky splits open,  
                        spilling voices like wildfire,  
                              hands grasping,  
                                    pulling,  
                                        demanding.

the echo becomes thunder,
the ember becomes blaze —
and the tide surges forward,
craving the pull,
the crash,
the storm.

   to be everything.  
       to be felt.

but fire burns,
and rivers drown,
and echoes stretch until they fade.

so the wind quiets,
                     the shadow folds,
                                      the world sighs —

            and it is still again.