I don’t even know how to describe it—
It was quiet in the way your body notices.
The kind of quiet that feels like an exhale.
Up a hill, through a pasture gate,
with cows grazing like nothing in the world had ever rushed them,
I found a spot that felt like a secret the land was willing to share.
The sunset didn’t just fall over the hills—it poured across them.
Soft gold spilling into green, lighting up the grass, the trees,
the backs of slow-moving cows.
It wasn’t just beautiful—it was alive.
Still, warm.
I stood outside of my tent
watching the sky shift from fire to ash,
like it had all the time in the world—
and for a moment, so did I.
The frogs came out as night rolled in—
their song low and steady, like the land breathing through its throat.
Not a performance. Not a show.
Just a rhythm older than me,
and somehow, meant for me.
I didn’t know how much I needed it until I arrived.
One day, I might bring my daughter here—
or maybe I’ll just tell her the name,
the way the sky poured gold,
how the frogs sang through the dark,
and let her find her own moment with it.