At the very end of summer’s long, slow
inhalation of the nourishing light of the sun,
there comes a pause, a moment when
time itself seems to stand still. Nothing moves.
Not a leaf, not the water, not a sound.
You hold your breath, maybe not even noticing;
it’s such a natural thing. A rest note in the song,
the last word in a chapter. Inside it, everything
is awake, rooted, waiting. Then the air whispers
and the beginning of what-comes-next stirs,
and the reeds sway, and from high in a tree
a bird calls, and once again you’re breathing.