I watch as Niagara does what Niagara must, a timeless ritual carved into stone and memory. The mist drifts upwardlike an old hymn, softening the edges of a world that has forgotten how to breathe. Below, the water gathers itself with the patience of saint and the certainty of gravity,a quiet promise kept through centuries of storms and seasons that never agreedon what comes next. There is a lesson in that thunder, a truth wrapped in spray and echo: even the strongest currents must eventually let go. And so I stand there,hands in cold pockets, thoughts heavier than winter air, watching Niagara do what Niagara must, because in the end, Niagara falls,and so do we, into new years,new reckonings, new ways of being carried somewhere we could not reach on our own.

I never saw combat. I served during a quieter time, when President Reagan was in office and the Cold War was still running cold. But even then, the lessons stayed with me. Discipline, brotherhood, purpose, and pride in wearing the uniform of the United States Army. To all who have served, in war or peace... Thank You! You carried the weight of readiness so others could carry on with their lives in safety. You stood watch so that freedom wasn’t just a word we said, but something we lived. To my brothers and sisters who went before me, and to those who came after, your courage continues to inspire. And to the families who supported us, you served too, often quietly and without recognition. Today, I just want to say: I see you. I respect you. And I’m proud to stand among you as one who once wore the uniform. — Stephen Oliver Former Infantryman, 101st Airborne Division

From a sky less than friendly, I peer into a canyon most certainly grand, sun-carved and ancient, a wound in the earth so deep and wide it makes even the clouds go quiet. The plane hums its bored little song, coffee sloshing in plastic cups, strangers flipping pages or dozing off, while below us lies a cathedral built by patience and the slow insistence of time. I press my forehead to the window, watching shadows stretch like long, tired arms, and I’m struck, again by how small we are, how big the world is, and how many miracles we miss because the seatbelt sign is on and we’re trying to find a comfortable way to sit with our own thoughts. Still, for a moment, turbulence and all, the sky opens, the canyon waits, and I remember that even on an ordinary flight to a place I’ve been before, the world can surprise me… if I’m willing to look down when everything else tells me to look away. -Stephen Ango Oliver 11/12/2022 & Edited 11/12/2025

Something I wrote after overhearing a phone conversation while waiting to board my flight.

Susurrus A word that whispers as it's spoken, Soft and light, a spell unbroken. "Susurrus," it sighs, a breeze through trees, A gentle murmur, the hum of bees. Its sound, a secret the air does keep, A lullaby to the world asleep. Say it slow, let it softly glide, A whisper itself, where echoes hide. "Susurrus" is a melody, feather-light, The sound of shadows, kissing the night. -Stephen Ango Oliver 2025