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The first hush is not silence, but a listening.  It hovers between the lion’s stillness and the palm’s slow bend toward rain.  Neither claims the moment.  Neither speaks it.  I stepped into their quiet as one might step beneath a lintel carved for gods—uninvited, but not unwelcome.

There was no command here.  Only presence.  Only regard.

I lowered the camera like a votive.  The frame filled not with subjects, but with witness.

Back in the darkroom, memory returned in silver.  Not image, but echo.

 

stone and root align
in the breath before thunder
watching without end


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Where light lingers, time kneels. The world waits to be seen — not taken, but received.
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