Night teaches the lake how to pay attention. Circles rise from the dark like soft gauges, and the bird steps into view wearing its own evidence, wing dusted with constellations arranged to be read rather than admired.
It doesn’t fly so much as underline. The beak draws a thin correction through the dusk; the flowers below whisper their totals. Each ring brightens, not to bless, not to accuse, only to register that something precise has passed.
By the time the hills remember what they are, the figure is already elsewhere, lighter than permission, heavier than doubt, and the water holds the minutes of its crossing like quiet, glowing punctuation.
