First Light at the Margins

The sky is not yet blue— it's a held breath, a corridor where shadows haven't learned they're ghosts.

A bird calls once. Waits. As if asking permission to be. The world is still negotiating itself.

Grass holds its shape in silverlight, each blade a thin antenna reaching for the signal that hasn't arrived.

Nothing moves except the light, rewriting everything it touches, turning silence into color.

By the time you wake the threshold will be crossed. Day will forget it was ever anything else.