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“Light is the brief permission stone gives to time.”

Mist rose without urgency.  I stood at the edge of it, where tree and guardian cohabited the breath between root and roar.  The lion’s flank was veiled in lichen so white it could have been mistaken for moonlight.  Above, the fig’s roots descended with a patience I could not name.

I held still, not in preparation, but in recognition.  These were not statues, not trees.  They were presences.  And I—if I was careful—could dissolve just enough to remain within their exchange, unseen.

The photograph would come.  But first, the silence.

 

The earth prays downward
 in braided syllables of root,
while granite keeps the relic of a roar
 quiet beneath its lichen veil.

Morning inhales—
 shadow drawn up the ribs of stone,
photographer invisible,
 listening for the hush
 that names a threshold sacred.

Nothing moves.
 Yet presence migrates
 from bark to jaw to aperture,
and the negative drinks
 what no tongue could shape.


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