Silence of Summer

I let the sun walk with me a while. Its pale hand skims the grass. The cool keeps what it wants, and I do not ask it back.

The stream travels in a thin thought, stone to stone, quiet and persistent. Stones keep the day’s old heat, moss keeps what the rain confided.

In the pines the air moves low, a hush that learns my breathing. There is space beside me on the path, room in the air for a name I do not say.

Clouds gather like a patient herd. Thunder writes its name far off. I smile as if the lesson took, while something under the ribs replies.

Nettles lean where the bank breaks. Pitch from a split limb sweetens the shade. A heron stands without ripple, patient as a question no one answers.

Footprints soften in the damp dust. I practice walking without echo, letting the water decide my pace, one careful step, then another.

Rain arrives in small sentences. I let it write what I cannot. The mouth of the stream darkens and carries it all without complaint.

Dusk braids itself through the trees. Crickets stitch the edges of the field. Summer holds its silence like a breath, the river brings a small lamplight back.

I stand at the bend and watch it pass. It leaves a little glow along the stones. I keep that quiet with me, and call it enough to go on.