The Hour Between

Light drains like water from a cupped hand, violet bleeds at the horizon's edge. The world softens—all sharp angles forgiven in this hour when nothing is quite itself.

A bird circles once, twice, uncertain whether to return or venture further. Shadows grow long, claiming territories they'll surrender again at dawn.

The sky holds its breath between colors— not day, not night, but something suspended, a threshold where the soul grows quiet and the ordinary becomes luminous.