Threshold Light

Morning pooled against the window— not yet day, not night's last breath, just the space between becoming.

A sparrow lands on the wet railing, shakes silver from its wings, leaves dark footprints in the settling dew.

I watch the light find its way through the trees, deliberate and slow, touching each leaf like a question.

Nothing changes. Everything does. The bird moves on. The day arrives. I remain in the threshold, grateful.