Threshold

The sky learns to let go, golden bleeding into wine-dark edges, and the world grows quiet in that peculiar way of endings.

Shadows pool like water, deep and still, gathering what the day couldn't hold— the last bird call, a door closing, the smell of cooling stone.

Between the light and the dark, we stand in the hinge moment, aware only of the turning, the slow pivot of hours, the breath held before silence settles.

Here the swallows skim lower, reading the thickening air, and somewhere a child calls once, their voice small and clear as the first star emerges.