Where the Sky Learns Silence

A crow traced circles in the noon-blue air,
its wings writing questions no wind could answer.
Below, the earth lay open —
fields breathing, rivers curling like restless fingers,
roads unrolled as if the world had something to confess.

I walked without naming directions,
each step a small defiance of the map.
The sun burned its slow signature into my shoulders,
and I thought of all the things we never say —
how trees dream in green syllables,
how stones keep time better than clocks,
how even our shadows grow lonely in winter.

At the horizon, a cloud began folding itself shut,
like a letter never meant to be sent.
I waited for thunder,
but silence arrived first —
patient, deliberate,
a teacher with no chalk.

And in that hush,
I learned the sky listens harder
than we ever do.