The Bindu Ring

There is a particular quality of light in the moments just before the monsoon breaks, when the sky holds its breath and a single drop forms at the very tip of a leaf, neither falling nor staying. It catches the last of the afternoon in its curve. It does not rush. It simply becomes the most complete thing in view: the entire sky, compressed into one perfect point of suspension. That is the feeling of a decision made clearly. Not with urgency. With recognition. When you already know the answer and the only thing left is to let yourself arrive at it. The ring closes around nothing it holds only light. A crescent beneath, a point above, and between them, the exact shape of a moment before it becomes a memory. Some things are most themselves at the moment of becoming. You have always known this one.