the vineyard walk

I went walking. Without purpose. Only the wind had a direction. The vines stood there, as they always do—silent, knowing, without explanation. I stopped before them, not to admire, but to see. The grapes hung like thoughts that had matured in secret. Not yet ripe for expression, but full of their own gravity. Between the rows, a stillness that wasn't peace, but pause. As if the world had taken a breath and forgotten to exhale. A single pole, wrapped in climbing leaves, leaned slightly— like someone listening. Not to words, but to what comes before words. The hills in the distance, not calling, not waiting— just being there, in their slow, untroubled way. Clouds gathered, but never spoke. Their silence was louder than thunder. I thought of nothing, and in that nothing, there was a faint joy, almost not there. A joy without cause—perhaps that is the truest kind. The forest edge was near. The meadow bent toward it. A place where stories don’t end, only disappear into themselves. And the daisies—I almost didn’t notice them. Which is why I did.