Threshold Hours

The day recedes like tide, leaving objects stranded in that amber pause— a fence becomes a ladder to somewhere, the sidewalk remembers its own edges.

Nothing is wrong yet. Light pools in the corners where it will not reach again, thick and honeyed, gilding the ordinary into witness.

A bird calls from the gathering dark, not quite evening, not quite memory. We stand in the skin of what was, reaching toward what comes, suspended in the music between.

When the blue finally deepens, we will not recognize ourselves. But for now—this breathing room, this amber door that opens both ways.