Where Light Bends

Shadows learn to dance before the sun remembers how to touch the earth. A sparrow carries the last note of summer in its throat, unwilling to swallow it whole.

The window holds a thousand reflections— each one a stranger wearing your face, each one certain of a different path through the same hallway.

Some mornings, light arrives like an apology for all the darkness it allowed. We accept without question, grateful for the pretense of beginning.