The Threshold Between Seasons

The birch leaves tremble— not quite yellow, not quite gold, suspended in their own becoming.

A single thread of spider silk catches the afternoon like a held breath, suspended between the known and the next moment.

The air tastes of copper and frost. Somewhere beneath the roots, the earth is already remembering what it was, what it will be.

We stand at the edge of something we cannot name— the season turning over in its sleep, a slow waking into its own ending.