Dawn Break

The frost releases its grip slowly, diamond-sharp at 4 AM, but by noon—a hesitant puddle gathering beneath the eaves. Light bends differently through melting ice.

Beneath the leaf litter, green insists. A small green refusal of darkness, pushing through what seemed permanent. The dead branch trembles anyway, as if remembering how to move.

Listen: it's the sound of nothing becoming something, the hush of transformation so quiet you'd miss it while speaking. Even the birds are learning the new frequencies.

We wait in this threshold, neither season claiming us entirely, our breath still visible in the morning but our hearts already warm— the way anticipation feels like spring.