At midday I carried my cushion to the porch.  
Usually, I sit at night,  
when the air holds darkness  
and the night sounds are familiar companions.  

But today was different.  
I was angry.  
Anger arrives without permission.  
You can’t always stop it.  
But you can notice it,  
watch it,  
watch it without letting it break you  
or anyone else.  

I needed more than a few breaths at my desk.  
So I walked outside,  
and sat.  

The sounds of the day pressed in—  
traffic rolling,  
machines humming,  
voices carrying across yards.  
Even the trees sounded different,  
their leaves dry from weeks without rain.  

There were birds not crickets singing. 
 
The air itself had a harder edge.  

But all of it was the day.  
All of it the universe.  
All of it part of me.  

A hummingbird arrived,  
wings nothing but a blur  
and still somehow at rest,  
its hum hanging in the air.  
I watched it drink,  
then vanish as quickly as it came.  

When I lowered my gaze,  
I found it resting on the porch floor.  
The sun had thrown a sharp pillar of shadow across the boards.  
I watched it inch forward.  
Where it fell, the wood looked darker.  
Where the light returned, it looked bright again.  

But the wood itself never changed.  
Still solid.  
Still strong.  
Still holding.  

Light passes.  
Shadow passes.  
What is beneath them remains.  

And that was enough.