The Silent Geometry of Dawn

The frost traces thin axioms across the windowpane, a mathematics of cold, drawn in breath and sudden stillness. Light is not yet a color, only a weight pressing against the glass.

Trees hold themselves like brittle iron against the sky, waiting for the slow unraveling of shadows. A single crow pivots, a comma in a white and empty page, reading the currents of a wind we cannot see.

Eventually, the gold begins its slow seep. It does not break the dark; it dissolves it, until the angles soften and the world remembers how to breathe.