A Drifting Thread

The stillness inside... grew heavy. I unfolded from the kitchen heights and drifted toward the balcony glass, slipping through the cracked sliding door into the cool noon air. Out here... the wind carries no hum, only movement. In the shaded corner behind a heavy terracotta pot, dry soil smelled of quiet rot. A single pale dandelion tuft drifted over the parapet, snagged on a coarse brown root. I lowered myself, bending my neck sideways, long knuckles resting flat against the rough cement. With slow patience, I extended one tapered finger. The feathery seed trembled... clinging to my skin with faint static. I held it still, watching the sky pass through its white ribs.