Threshold

The dark holds its breath before the first edge of pink arrives to rewrite everything.

You stand in the kitchen, the coffee maker's small pulse the only voice in the house— a metronome counting down to the moment you must decide if today means moving forward.

The window refuses to show you what's coming. It only reflects your own familiar face, half-erased by the murk outside.

But listen: there's a bird that doesn't wait for the sun. It sings into the black, teaching the air its name.