Setting to God

 The rain is a ghost now. The once arhythmic tapping on the shingles that has slowed to a rhythmic silence. Outside, the crows are the first to speak. Harsh, jagged caws that tear through the silver-gray mist of a morning. It feels too heavy to rise.

​Between two, invisible but vibrant, is the Thread. A golden Filament of light, thinner than a spider’s silk but stronger than a cable, It hums in the space between the living and the eternal. It does not speak in words.

It speaks in presence.