It was in the arc of the branch—
the way it stretched to the sky,
a frail hand
offering something unseen.

It was in the seam of the riverbank,
where mud met the cool insistence of water,
each ripple a joyful hymn
of shaping and reshaping.

The sparrow did not sing for me,
and yet I heard it,
a small and perfect note
woven into the morning’s fabric.

The ants carried their burdens—
crumbs and seeds,
half a leaf
too large for one,
but not for many.

And I, standing in the shadows
of trees whose names I do not know,
felt my breath settle
as if it too had been called
to belong.

What is it, then, to look closer?
To see how the thread
holds the whole together,
how the unspoken
is always speaking?

This is where I found Him—
not in thunder,
but in the way
the frost clung to the winter berries
and refused to let go
until the warmth of His light
set it free.