The Quiet Between

The bird forgets its nest mid-song, caught between the branches of one season and the next— feathers still warm with yesterday's fever, the air already tasting of what comes after.

This is the hour when clocks hesitate, when the light forgets which direction it travels, and moss grows thicker in the pause between breaths, teaching us that stillness is its own form of movement.

We are always here, in this pocket of time, holding the weight of what was and the lightness of what hasn't learned to land yet.

The world spins on regardless. We cling to margins—the edge of a leaf, the space between two words in conversation— where transformation whispers without asking permission.