Rapids

The morning was quiet in the way a held breath is quiet.
I sat with a cup of coffee, its heat rising like a small sun,
and the world did not move unless I let it.

Stillness has a sound if you listen long enough
the low hum of a life waiting,
the pulse of something old and familiar under the ribs.

But the thoughts did not stay still.
They ran fast, wild as river water in spring,
troubled and bright,
carrying broken branches, half-dreams,
and the sharp stones of yesterday.

I let them run.
A man fights many things in his life,
but the river inside him is not one to break with fists.
You watch it.
You learn the shape of its current.
You drink your coffee and breathe.

And in the quiet, you understand
that even rapids know where they are going,
and sometimes it is enough just to sit
in the stillness
and let them pass.