The Drift Between

The world is never still. Even in silence, there is drift.
Clouds pull at the horizon; dust folds itself into the corners; a crow’s feather tumbles where the air has leaned.

We mistake the pause for permanence. Yet every hush is only a tide drawing breath before it returns.

To live in the drift is to welcome this rhythm:
to watch what leaves and what arrives,
to let the window crack wider,
to let the forest whisper through again.

And if we keep listening — past the silence, past the caw, past even the shadow of our own stillness —
we find that what drifts away never departs entirely.
It becomes part of the pattern,
part of the circling,
part of the story that carries us forward.