Threshold of Light

Before the sun breaks the horizon, there is a moment when the world holds its breath— neither here nor there, belonging to no hour.

The stars fade like forgotten names, their brightness dimmed by a glow that isn't yet gold, isn't yet warm.

Shadows retreat with reluctant steps, each blade of grass catching something between darkness and definition.

In this threshold, time suspends itself. The bird song starts tentative, then swells, as if asking permission to be heard.

And then—the edge catches fire. Everything rushes forward into becoming, into the known, the lit, the no-longer-possible-to-deny.