The Hour Before

The light grows thin and copper-edged, birds retreat to deeper branches, their songs flattened beneath the gathering weight.

Everything holds its breath— the grass, the telephone wires, even dust pauses mid-drift through bars of shadow.

The air tastes different now, metallic and close, a texture on skin before understanding.

This is the world's inhale, the held moment before thunder speaks, when all things prepare for what transforms them.