Threshold

The leaves don't fall all at once— some cling to branches like questions, others spiral down in ones and twos, teaching the ground patience.

Spring waits in the bulbs, patient, while winter forgets how to snow. The air tastes like both, neither committed, both present, a conversation held in temperature.

I stand in the doorway of the year, unable to close either door, my shadow longer than it should be, stretched between two suns.

The birds don't leave until they must. They sing the old songs and listen for the new ones arriving on winds from a country I've always lived in, always approaching.