Winter Lines

In the blue hush of morning, rising,

in the fragile weight of each step—

a word, unspoken, a gesture

caught at the edge of light.

Do you see their eyes searching,

tracing a path you almost remember?

Once, wings carved their echoes in air,

like river currents shaping stone.

There are no endings here.

No frozen edge, no stillness.

Only birds on winter lines.

Only air, silver and sharp.

Only feathers skimming the edge

of what cannot be named.

Only the lift of currents shifting.

Only the hush before the fall.

Only the one sound—

rising.