Threshold

Between the copper sky and gathering dark, a single bird crosses the invisible line— its wings catch what remains of sun.

The trees release their hold on gold. Shadow pools at the root of each trunk, spilling outward like water finding its own level.

I stand where the light still reaches, though night already dwells in my chest, cold and patient as stone.

A moth arrives, trembling against the window, drawn to the last truth of fire— that brightness devours what loves it most.