A month can pass with a deep knowing held under, felt only as a pull you can't name, surfacing at the wrong, quiet hours.

Silver gone still, a deep violet beneath. It has the cool of deep water, the scent of white flowers and night air, and a faint taste of salt.

A deep knowing held under for a month keeps moving the water, named or not. It foretells nothing and shows nothing — it holds a still place to let the long-held knowing surface and be heard, in its own time.