patience
— the quiet trust in time, like a seed resting beneath the earth, certain that one day it will bloom
a single golden leaf floats past my window. for a moment, it seemed almost unwilling to leave the branch.
it took such a long time to reach the ground. it twirled once, twice, then caught upon a little spider's thread and hung there, shimmering in the pale sunlight.
so it rested, forever, waiting for the wind.
the woods have been especially still today. some trees are turning amber at their edges, but the little path behind the house is clear, no fallen leaves. i walked along it after breakfast, carrying my basket, though i had no particular errand.
near the old oak tree, i noticed that the mushrooms have finished growing in a circle. a beautiful, meaningless arrangement that can only happen when one is willing to look closely.
the house has been quiet, too, except for the old clock in the hallway. every day at three, it gives one soft chime, though i don't remember winding it.
still, i suppose someone must be doing it.
i left a little sugar biscuit beside my cup of coffee. when i returned, there were two crumbs on the windowsill and a faint trail of flour. then it vanished.
as evening came, i sat beside the window with my embroidery kit and watched the last light disappear between the pines. somewhere far away, an owl called once, then again. the moon slowly climbed above the treetops, until its light spilled across the floorboards.
the clock will chime again tonight.
and nothing at all will happen.