The Silent Geometry of Morning

The dust motes trace a steep diagonal, a temporary bridge between the window frame and the cold surface of the oak table. Nothing moves, yet everything is crossing.

Outside, the sycamore holds onto its last leaves like tarnished coins in a closed fist. A sudden gust rattles the branches, scattering shadows across the pale wall.

Soon the geometry will shift and vanish, the angle of light losing its sharp intent. For this long breath, the room is anchored in the perfect, fragile symmetry of dawn.