Water rushes down the stream.
Wind hurries through the trembling trees.
Deer dart through the underbrush.
Fog spills from the silent valley.
Herds stampede across the open savanna.
Shadows stretch—then flee the light.
Earth slips in a landslide.
Waves crash upon the shore.
Raindrops dive to meet the dust.
So I too must learn to rush.
Rush into a white dress,
fingers fumbling at the zipper.
Rush my hair into a tight bun.
Rush through a dinner I won’t taste.
A rush always comes before the quiet.
A waterfall crashes,
then flows into stillness.
Lightning splits the sky,
then leaves it calm and blue—
the silence like a wish
to move slower.
But when water reaches a cliff,
it can’t turn back.
And when lightning calls,
thunder must follow.
So when war calls,
a girl must zip up her white dress—
and ride home in silence.
War does not wait.
But afterward—
oh, afterward—
even the wind holds its breath.
A heart can’t slow
until it races.
A life can’t settle
until it’s been flung forward.
When the uniforms are folded,
and the noise is gone,
and the ground no longer shakes—
maybe he’ll feel the silence
that filled my car ride home.
And maybe—
hopefully—
such a silence
will fill our life together.