The road home was empty… A ribbon of cracked asphalt cutting through the ghost of dawn, still drunk on dew and silence. The kid was off to school, oblivious to the chaos her old man was already wrestling in his head. The kind of quiet that only exists after you’ve handed off a piece of your heart and are left alone with the hum of power lines and the smell of wet earth.

The sun came crawling up behind the trees like a busted neon sign, leaking gold into the fog. A goddamn masterpiece for anyone sober enough to notice. The fields were still half-asleep, the mist moving low and lazy like cigarette smoke across a pool table. Every color in the sky was a confession, blue, bruised, orange, on fire. You could almost hear the universe clear its throat.

Moments like this make you think the world still has a chance. That maybe beneath all the headlines and the noise and the fluorescent decay of modern living, there’s still some raw poetry left in the soil.

And somewhere between the engine’s hum and the click of the shutter, I remembered why I keep chasing these moments, not for perfection, not for peace, but for proof that it all still means something.