Still Fathom

Turbulence belongs to the surface. Far below, everything grows still.

At this depth nothing moves. What fell and cascaded above has hardened into faceted forms, cream and sage and gold locked into place, a last cool blue sinking through them and settling. The gold no longer falls; it is held fast, fixed where the descent finally left it.

There is a calm that only the greatest depth can reach. The bottom of a thing is not its darkest place but its quietest, too far down for anything to disturb.

The gold within the fathom rests at last, set forever into a deep that has finished moving.