Ardain Isma
CSMS Magazine
This morning arrived not with the blaze of summer, but with a softened light, a gentler breath. The air carried a cool undertone, the faintest crispness, like the first note of a song whose melody has not yet been revealed.
Shadows stretched long and languid across the earth, as though they too sensed the turning of time. A breeze stirred the trees with a secret whisper, and a few restless leaves, brushed with gold, loosened themselves as if in rehearsal for autumn’s grand performance.
There was a stillness beneath the sounds—the birdsong, the lingering cicada hum—that felt like pause and promise entwined. The earth seemed to hold its breath, poised between the fading heat of summer and the quiet blaze of fall.
This morning did not proclaim the season; it murmured. And in that murmur was a sweetness, a tender reminder that change does not always come with thunder. Sometimes it arrives in silence, in cool air and shifting light, in the hush before the harvest.
