The mist still clung to the ancient oak, a pearl veil. Sunlight, a tentative brush, began to burn through, turning each dewdrop on the spider's silk into a miniature prism.

A robin chirped, a single, clear note, then silence returned, thick with the scent of wet earth and pine. I stood, unmoving, feeling the cool breath of the dawn on my face, watching the world awaken in hesitant, hushed tones.

The beauty wasn't in grandeur, but in this quiet unfolding, a secret shared only with the waking forest.

The ripple of a thought unseen,
A hush that settles, pure and vast.
A pulse of silence, sharp and keen,
A sound too deep for sound to last.

It feels like the first breath taken in dawn.
A page turned over, white and waiting.
The deep relief of things not yet written.

Only the map line, curving toward light.
No history holds the hand now,
Just the simple, certain click of the lock unset.

The vastness of the universe ensures that every discovery is simultaneously an acknowledgment of infinite remaining ignorance.

When memory is perfect and scarcity is obsolete, toward which novel, necessary form of beauty will the collective human intellect next turn its sustained, generative attention?