Silence of Summer

I let the sun walk with me a while.
Its pale hand skims the grass.
The cool keeps what it wants,
and I do not ask it back.

The stream travels in a thin thought,
stone to stone, quiet and persistent.
Stones keep the day’s old heat,
moss keeps what the rain confided.

In the pines the air moves low,
a hush that learns my breathing.
There is space beside me on the path,
room in the air for a name I do not say.

Clouds gather like a patient herd.
Thunder writes its name far off.
I smile as if the lesson took,
while something under the ribs replies.

Nettles lean where the bank breaks.
Pitch from a split limb sweetens the shade.
A heron stands without ripple,
patient as a question no one answers.

Footprints soften in the damp dust.
I practice walking without echo,
letting the water decide my pace,
one careful step, then another.

Rain arrives in small sentences.
I let it write what I cannot.
The mouth of the stream darkens
and carries it all without complaint.

Dusk braids itself through the trees.
Crickets stitch the edges of the field.
Summer holds its silence like a breath,
the river brings a small lamplight back.

I stand at the bend and watch it pass.
It leaves a little glow along the stones.
I keep that quiet with me,
and call it enough to go on.

• diimaan (09/08/2025)