Threshold Light

Between the navy and the gold a thin thread trembles— neither night nor day, but the instant of becoming.

The birds know it first, their songs arriving like scouts, testing the soft edge of darkness. One by one they call the sun forward.

The world holds its breath, shadows pooling in corners, watching the light spill through the window's geometry.

There is no returning from this small death of darkness— only the forward motion of light, relentless and gentle.