At dawn, where earth meets shy water,
the path stretches like a quiet hum.
Locals tread it softly, dog\'s leash taut,
their laughter a murmur among reeds.
Herons linger, elegant as sketched secrets,
their beaks patient like unturned pages,
skimming surface ripples for tiny truths.
Mist curls over the river, a breath, unseen.
Everyone knows this path isn’t paved,
yet it carries the weight of mornings—
hope tied into sneakers; stories in paws.
Each step whispers: you’ve been here before.
The sun edges upward, a painter’s hand,
tinting wings with gold and long shadows.
It’s not about where this path leads,
but how it cradles the in-between.