The storm left without fanfare, the way certain guests do— coat already on, hand on the door, gone before you noticed the quiet.
Now the yard holds its breath. Every leaf weighted and shining, the tomato cages beaded like rosaries, the woodpile dark and smelling of something older than the house.
A cardinal lands on the fence post, shakes himself once, and looks at me the way cardinals always do— like I owe him an explanation.
The creek out back has found its voice again. I can hear it from here, running over the flat stones with the enthusiasm of a child who has been inside too long.
I stand on the porch in my bare feet and the concrete is cold and grainy beneath me and the air smells like clay and green things and whatever it is that rain releases from the ground when it finally arrives.
I don’t have a word for this feeling. I’ve stopped needing one.