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The steps still shimmer. The rain has passed, but its breath remains—darkening the stone, softening the edge of every line. The towers have not yet shown themselves. The sky is only the hint of a veil. And I—still, listening—am no more than a shadow beside them.

This is not a time for making. It is a time for letting go.

The lens is fogged. I do not clear it.

This morning, the geometry of Angkor does not declare itself. It yields. Slowly, without announcement. Upward.

Later, in the studio, I would shape the photograph with my hands—guiding light, softening dark, toning the print until its quiet opened again.

The image is not of the bird.
It is of what rose when I didn’t.

the courtyard does not echo—
it gathers

what lifts into air
is not bird
but breath

steps shimmer with
what rain remembers

and you—
you are nowhere
and entirely there


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