The sky doesn’t hum like it used to.
We traded songs
for signal towers
and forgot the sound
of wings over wheat.

Benches sit empty
in parks built for someone else’s childhood.
Swings move only with the wind now,
no laughter to push them.

We speak in pings
and half-hearted hearts,
thumb-pressed love
and silence that scrolls on
longer than grief.

We taught our children
to fear the quiet
but not to cherish it.
We gave them passwords
instead of prayers.

And still,
the earth waits.
Somewhere,
a fox curls beneath a rusted fence,
a girl cups a candle like a secret,
and the wind remembers
how to sing.

Ryan Stone