Lux Obscura

A shadowed, resinous breath rises from thick red earth, brief and unmistakable. The windswept fog carries it forward toward something approaching. Bright poppies flare where the ground has been opened by war, appearing almost like signals. Beauty arrives exactly where it should not, as if summoned by disturbance and pain. The air is held in sharp suspension, like the moment before thunder decides to break, when history practices its return just beyond the horizon. Perhaps as a warning. Yet, around us, the fragile pulse of life remains — isolated red blooms standing in the haze.