Threshold

The morning breaks like quartz— sharp edges catching fire, each blade of grass a prism.

I stand in the margin between what was and what arrives, feet planted in yesterday's dew, face turned toward tomorrow's warmth.

The birds don't hesitate at thresholds. They cross without apology, their wings already knowing which side of the air to trust.

I am learning their language slowly— how silence holds a thousand beginnings, how the space between heartbeats is where everything that matters lives.