shadows on the deck
a bird waits at the fence post
time bends, then resumes
The deck was old, the wood splintered into soft ridges where countless seasons had pressed down. Beyond it stretched a meadow, long and unbroken, its grass standing in quiet rows like an audience waiting for the next act.
Late afternoon light had fallen across the field, the kind of light that flattens the horizon but sharpens the mind. A jug of water sweated on the table between them. Two chairs creaked whenever they shifted their weight.
The air was steady.
One leaned back, boots crossed, eyes drifting across the clouds as if he had ordered them himself. The other leaned forward, elbows on his knees, restless, alert, as though every silence contained a secret.
“What gives you energy?” one of them asked.
The words didn’t sound like a question. They sounded like a doorway.
The pause stretched long. The man who had leaned forward watched a bird move from fence post to fence post, wings like small black parentheses.
“Attention,” he said at last. “That’s what charges me. Not caffeine, not sleep. Those matter, but they’re temporary. The real fuel is noticing. The smaller the detail, the greater the spark. The ripple that widens in a puddle. A child inventing a word. The way the shadows shift color when the sun falls lower. If I notice, really notice, I feel plugged into something larger than myself.”
The other laughed, boots scraping against the deck. His voice was slow, like a song stretched out on a tape.
“Motion,” he said. “Stillness drains me if it stays too long. But motion—any kind—fills me. Driving without a map. Walking through streets at night with no reason. Letting the wind sketch across my face. Freedom itself pumps the gas.”
The bird called out once, as if it agreed.
The first nodded. “Freedom and motion overlap with curiosity. Wandering without knowing, letting the unexpected arrive. That’s the generator. Kids show us this. Their energy runs forever as long as they’re curious. Adults slow down only when they stop asking.”
“Curiosity needs discipline,” the other replied. “Scatter yourself too wide and you’re lost seed. Energy comes not from what you say yes to, but what you refuse. Cut the noise, trim the fat. Then the current flows.”
A breeze moved through the meadow. The jug trembled faintly on the table.
“Subtraction creates energy,” the forward one said. “Everyone thinks more is the answer. More tools, more tricks, more stimulants. But the cleanest fuel is clarity. Strip down. What’s left is already charged.”
“Pretending drains me,” the other countered. “Acting one way while feeling another—it’s like leaving all the lights on in a house where no one lives. But if I’m aligned—my words, my choices, my gut all singing the same note—it doesn’t matter how tired I am. I’m lit.”
He slapped the armrest. The sound echoed once, then seemed to hang in the stillness longer than it should have.
The first smiled. “Alignment is attention’s integrity. When I scatter, I empty. But when I give myself wholly—listening, writing, building—I don’t spend energy. I multiply it.”
The other tipped his hat back. His eyes squinted at the horizon.
“Nature,” he said. “That’s my socket. Put me in woods, by the sea, under stars—it doesn’t matter. Cicadas at dusk. Waves hammering the sand. A desert night where the silence folds over itself. All of it. Plug straight into the wall of the universe.”
The first man’s eyes softened. “Nature, yes. But for me, it’s not the spectacle. It’s the small designs. Moss threading over stone. Ants carrying impossible burdens. Bees weaving a moving net of order. Each pattern is endless. Awe regenerates. The more you notice, the more it grows.”
“Awe,” the other said, letting the word linger. “That’s the juice. You can’t bottle it. You can only put yourself where it might sneak up on you. Strange roads. New faces. Places that bend your sense of home. Wonder scrapes the dust off. Wonder resets the bones.”
The shadows lengthened. The bird returned, this time landing on the rail. Its head tilted, eyes sharp, as if it too wanted to know the answer.
“People matter,” the first added. “Especially the young. They see without filters. Being near them reboots me. Their laughter, their questions—they remind me how much I’ve stopped noticing. Their honesty is contagious.”
The other hummed. “My children do that. They burn bright, then collapse. No pacing. That honesty itself is electric.”
The meadow stirred as if some invisible hand had brushed its surface.
“So energy,” the first said, voice low now, “isn’t stored like money in a bank. It’s relational. It flows. Between us and the world. When we connect—with people, with nature, with curiosity—it moves. When we disconnect—pretend, scatter, isolate—it drains.”
“It’s a river,” the other answered. “Not a wallet. You don’t hoard it. You step into the current. Flow feeds itself. The river moves, and you move with it.”
They both leaned back now. Two chairs creaked in rhythm.
“Energy is attention,” the first murmured. “Energy is awe. Energy is alignment. Energy is connection. Presence is the plug.”
The other grinned into the horizon. “That’ll do. You keep watching moss. I’ll keep chasing roads. Same current.”
The sun lowered until the field was one flat band of gold. The bird spread its wings, then vanished into the tall grass, leaving only the empty rail. The jug of water caught the last light and glowed like glass on fire.
For a long while, neither spoke.
The silence wasn’t empty. It was charged.
And when they finally rose from their chairs, the meadow seemed to rise too, as though it had been listening the entire time.
life 
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