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It’s the heat first.

Not the kind you fight,
just something that settles
and stays.

By evening the air has weight.
You can feel it on your arms
even when you’re not moving.

The porch fan turns.
Slow, steady.
Not enough to change anything,
but you’re glad for it.

Somewhere a radio is on.
Someone talking.
You don’t follow it.

The smell comes up at dusk.
Jasmine, maybe.
Or something close to it.
You don’t try to name it.

Cars pass on the road
without urgency.
Headlights sliding through
the same trees
you remember.

A mockingbird keeps going
long after dark.
No reason for it.

You sit a while.

There were other places.
You stayed in them,
thought you might belong there.

But this is different.

Nothing announces it.
No moment where it becomes clear.

Just this:

you don’t feel the need
to leave.

The night settles in
the way it always has.
Warm, a little close,
familiar.

You stay where you are.

That’s enough.