First Light

The darkness knows its end before we do, a slow unburdening at the horizon's edge— gold seeping through the cracks we didn't notice.

Everything held its breath. The world in that blue space between forgetting and waking, where nothing casts a shadow yet.

Then the birds remember their names, and we remember ours, and the day pours in like water through open hands.

Some mornings the light arrives as a question. Others as a thief. This one comes gentle—asking only if we've missed it.