River Witness

I sat in my car beside the Beaufort River,

windows down,

evening’s hush settling soft on the tide.

Words spilled easy—

a conversation stretching long and lean,

like the Spanish moss that sways from the oaks.

We were talking—

about something or nothing,

the kind of talk that warms the air

without needing direction.

And then—

I turned my head.

There.

Still as a sermon,

taller than thought,

a white bird, elegant as silence,

perched on the rail like it belonged

to both water and sky.

Its neck a question mark,

curved in quiet judgment.

Eyes sharp,

beak straight as a promise.

Feet gripping metal like roots finding place.

It didn’t flinch,

just stared,

like it had been listening the whole time—

like it knew what mattered

wasn’t what we were saying

but what we were trying not to say.

And for a moment,

the river stilled,

the sun bowed behind the trees,

and I knew

some messengers don’t need wings to fly—

just the right kind of stillness

to be seen.