The silence before the storm hits the river

Just sat on the bank for twenty minutes after the last client left. The air was thick, the water still—like it was holding its breath. I’ve seen this before: when the sky turns that grey-green and the birds go quiet. Not a single fish broke the surface. It’s not just weather. It’s a kind of waiting. Like the river knows something we don’t. And maybe that’s why I stay. Not for the catch. For the hush.