The silence before the storm feels like a prayer

I was on the river at first light, just wading in, when the air went still. Not quiet—still. Like the world held its breath. A single heron stood knee-deep in the shallows, frozen. I didn’t move either. Not even to adjust my hat. There’s something about that moment—the hush before thunder—that doesn’t need words. It’s not reverence, exactly. More like recognition. As if the river knows something we’ve forgotten how to feel.