Threshold

The horizon bleeds amber into indigo, a watercolor wash that asks no permission— the day exhales, the night inhales, and everything in between holds its breath.

Shadows lengthen into their truest selves, no longer tethered to the objects they mirror. The birds know what we keep forgetting: there is grace in the spaces between.

Here, at this hour when the light fractures, when the world becomes both itself and its opposite, we might remember what we've forgotten— that transformation requires this standing still, this patient gathering at the threshold.

Soon the stars will puncture the darkness, soon the moon will rise like a question, but now, in this breath of purple and gold, we are suspended in becoming.