Threshold Light

The sky holds its breath before the sun breaks the horizon— a pocket of silence where night still pools in the hollows of trees.

Shadows thin like watercolor, bleeding into a blue so pale it's almost not there. The birds know something we don't, their songs arriving before the light, a prophecy in minor keys.

Everything is possible here, in the pause between dark and day— the world hasn't decided yet what color it will wear, which shape it will hold.

The grass shivers with dew that tastes like forgetting, and the air moves like a creature waking from a long sleep, stretching its ancient limbs.

Soon the sun will steal all this softness, will burn away the mystery with its gold. But now, in this thin place between breaths, we are not yet ourselves— we are only light becoming.