Meridian

Dawn breaks not with fanfare but with a quiet accumulation—light pooling in the corners of windows, the world held between sleep and waking.

I watch the sky shift colors like a hand moving through water, each moment erasing the last, none of it permanent, all of it necessary.

The birds return in waves, their voices layering into something that sounds like beginning, like the world has forgotten how to be silent.

I am standing at the threshold, neither here nor there, suspended in the geometry of morning—the way the sun finds the edge of things, how it transforms what it touches.