Threshold Hour

Before the sun names the sky, light seeps through like ink spreading on wet paper— a whisper of color claiming the dark.

The birds know this secret: they sing into the not-yet, their voices the only proof that morning is coming. Everything holds its breath.

In this narrow kingdom between what was and what will be, the world seems newly made, unwritten, possible— a page turning on its own.

Then the sun breaks the surface and the spell dissolves. But in that moment before, we were alive in the space where nothing was decided.