Threshold

The birches shed their copper skin, light falling through in scattered coins, and everything that held so tight releases into drift.

Below, the mushrooms multiply— pale crowns breaking the dark loam, they speak in languages of root and rain, conversations the trees have learned by heart.

I walk the line between two weathers, my breath rehearsing winter, the ground still warm with summer's memory. Nothing asks permission to transform.

The fog rolls in like recognition, erasing the familiar paths, and I am neither here nor leaving— just suspended in the necessary pause where everything becomes something else.