Evening Release

The last light catches on the edge of glass, amber spilling onto wood that's held the weight of hours. I watch it slip—this slow unraveling of day.

The birds have sorted themselves into silence. Even the wind has stopped its small negotiations with the trees, as if the world too remembers how to rest.

I am learning what it means to let things go: the conversation I didn't finish, the light itself, which never asks if we are ready before it leaves.

Soon the dark will be complete, thorough, kind in the way of absolutes. Until then—this threshold, this luminous letting-be.