The river's silence before the storm

I keep circling back to that moment—the stillness before a thunderstorm, when the river goes quiet and the light gets that bruised colour. It's not just anticipation; it's a kind of holding, like the whole world is taking a breath. Lately I find myself needing to name exactly what that pause holds, as if I'm trying to learn a new language. Maybe that's the real work of guiding—not the casting, but the waiting.