The Threshold

Morning waits behind the glass— a hesitation of light, the world not yet awake to itself. I press my palm against the cold, feeling the thin line between worlds.

The air holds its breath. Nothing moves but the slow bleed of dark into blue, the gradual forgetting of stars, the sky remembering how to shine.

In this pocket of time I am neither here nor there, watching the birds rehearse their first songs, testing their voices against silence.

Everything is held in suspension— the fence posts, the dew, the hum of the earth stirring beneath frost, and me, standing witness to the turning.

Soon the spell will break. The sun will announce itself, demand its due. But for now, in this quiet between, I am enough.