Curious Things

Something is listening.
The tides, the stones, the winds—
Busybodies,
Curious things.

Something is watching.
Older than sleeping mountains,
Older than the first breath of stars.

It waits in the mists of twilight,
In the dance of shadows,
Between the beats of a heart.

It’s holding its breath.

And then—a sigh.
Even the moon leans in
As something unseen
Opens its eye.