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Dawn had not yet arrived, only suggested itself in the thinning dark.  I stood before the fig and its companion lion—both silent, both cloaked in time.  The air felt weighted, but not heavy.  Held.  Like an unanswered question.

I pressed the shutter.  But long before that, the image had already formed—between breath, between root and carved jaw, between things no longer trying to speak.

 

Roots sip unborn light
Stone exhales forgotten roars
Hush completes the frame


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