The Threshold

Light spills through the edge of night, gold seeping into shadow, and the world holds its breath.

Dew clings to spider silk, each drop a small universe catching what we cannot name—that shimmer between sleeping and waking.

The birds haven't sung yet. The city hasn't started its machinery. There is only this: breath, stillness, the particular grace of being alive at the threshold.

It doesn't last. We know this. But for a moment the earth remembers how to be gentle.