The Music of the Commonplace

By Al Konda

Dusk does not argue.

It settles.

So does certain presence.

He did not raise banners.

He did not carve his name in sky.

He walked.

And something softened.

The fields held breath a little longer.

The air grew less severe.

The smallest seed beneath root-dark stirred.

No one declared it miracle.

No temple marked the hour.

Yet the world, long braced against its own weight, loosened.

The music was not loud.

It was ordinary.

Market-voices.

Wind in wood.

Stone beneath foot.

Retuned.

And though he passed unseen,

the air remembered him.

Sometimes grace does not shine.

Sometimes it lowers the goad.

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