The Hour Before Light

The world holds its breath before the bell rings. Shadow pools gather in the corners of things— not darkness, but the memory of it, the way breath clings to cold glass.

A cardinal lands on the fence rail, crimson burning through the grey. It knows something we don't yet, some secret tucked in the folds of its wings.

The trees are still learning their names again. Each leaf unfurls like a letter no one asked for, no one asked to receive, but here it is—

green, undeniable, alive. The air tastes like rain that never fell, like something promised and kept in the space between here and almost.

We stand at the threshold, waiting. Not for something to begin— it has already begun. We're waiting to remember how to see.