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The hush gathered before I did.  It was already there—pooled in the lion’s carved breath, stitched into the palm’s vertical hush.  The air was thick with that listening that precedes rain, when the world has not gone quiet, but become alert.

I set the tripod gently, my breath slowed to match theirs.  Something in me fell silent—not from awe, but from accord.

Light shifted, barely.  Wind braided itself and unravelled.  I waited not for the image, but for permission.


They do not face us.
They turn toward a horizon
held inside the gathering cloud.

Stone curves into a question;
bark ascends like a single breath.

Between them, wind unravels
its own small myth of passing.

Neither flinches.
Neither blinks.
They were sent to listen,
and listening has made them real.

Even the storm
borrows their patience.


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