The Hour Between

The night loosens its grip, fingers uncurling from the eaves, and I watch the garden remember itself— first in grays, then in whispers of green.

A cardinal calls the light closer. The fence posts emerge like a pulse, each shadow a small death, each revelation a small miracle.

This is the hour when the world forgets to hold its breath, when the threshold lifts and spills its careful collection of hours.

I could stay here in the almost, in the not-quite-yet, but even liminal spaces demand we choose a side.

The sun breaks like an egg. The day begins its small, relentless bloom.