The Violet Hour

The world exhales a frost-edged breath, silhouettes untangling from the night’s long weave. A solitary bird tests the weight of the air, finding it heavy with the memory of stars.

Indigo yields to a bruised and tender violet, the horizon a fragile seam about to tear. Trees stand as silent witnesses to the shift, their roots drinking the cold, unspoken dark.

Soon the gold will spill and fracture the calm, demanding motion, casting sharp-edged claims. But for this brief, suspended hesitation, the earth belongs to the shadows and the dew.