Between the Breathing

The world pauses at the edge of becoming. Not yet spring, not quite the heat of certainty— that narrow place where light catches on wet stone and the air tastes like possibility unspoken.

I watch the garden refuse to choose. Buds tight-fisted on branches, hedging their bets. Each leaf a small negotiation with the sun, a quiet argument about whether now is enough.

The birds know something we don't. They sing louder in the mornings that frighten us, when everything feels fragile as paper, when silence has weight.

There is a freedom in not knowing. In the breathing space between one certainty and the next, where roots still reach and wings still fold, where becoming is not yet a promise but a question.