The wind, once all teeth and chase,
steps out of its tempests
and threads the grass with quiet breath.
Waves hurl themselves toward shore
then soften mid-crash,
their fury spent,
each folding over itself—
a creature surrendering its strength,
returning to the deep to rest.
The sun, a blazing tyrant losing its grip,
drags along the sky’s edges.
Dusk clings to it, a broken wing.
Mountains, carved from old storms,
lean into the coming dark,
their shadows slipping away from them.
The river shreds its silver edges,
glides under the fading sky,
its surface drawn smooth.
I breathe with all of it,
something loosening deep inside,
the world’s hush finding its way
through me.
© 2025 Lynne Curry
Originally published in Prosetrics