Monday Mantis Mood.
A praying mantis paused on a sun-warmed slab of stone, green and angular against the pale grit. In the hard light it looks almost assembled rather than born—thin legs like hinges, a narrow body held just above the ground, and that small, steady head turned as if it can hear the world thinking.
I stood there longer than I meant to, watching the shadow stretch out beside it, darker than the insect itself. There’s something quietly ceremonial in the way a mantis holds its front legs, as if patience is a posture. On a Monday, that feels like instruction.
The day has its usual noise—cars in the distance, errands tugging at the edge of attention—but this tiny hunter makes a different kind of room. For a moment, everything becomes simple: sun, stone, stillness. It’s a reminder that the ordinary isn’t empty; it’s just waiting to be noticed.
I left it where it was, keeping its little pocket of calm intact, and carried that mood with me—slow, watchful, and a bit more spacious than the calendar allowed.
