Slow wind

Out here, change doesn’t rush in. It slides through quiet — a shift in the breeze, a sound you almost miss.

You don’t see it working, but one morning, the hills look different.

Progress moves like that. Slow. Uneven. You can’t pin it down to a moment.

And while it’s happening, nothing looks right. The corrals half-built, the ground torn up, tools scattered like it’ll never come together.

But that’s the look of motion. It’s not broken. It’s becoming.

Give it time.

The slow wind does more than the storm ever could.