The Dimming

The world forgoes its colors slowly, as if embarrassed by the glare— easing into shadow like water finding its own level, patient and inevitable.

The birds know before we do. They gather, recount themselves, settle their wings against the cooling air with the sound of paper folding. Even the light itself seems tired.

I watch the blue deepen at the edges, creep across the sky like spilled ink, claiming back what was borrowed at dawn. The trees darken to silhouettes, their branches remember what they were meant to hold: only darkness, only stillness.

And I am small in this slow thief's work, caught between the want to hold on and the knowing that nothing asks permission to leave.