The Light Admits Its Leaving

The hour when birds forget their insistence, when light settles into the skin of trees like water remembering how to be patient.

I watch the world arrange itself for darkness—shadows deepening their colors, the air taking on weight and texture, the way a held breath has presence.

There is a grammar in this slowness, a language the body speaks when it stops its perpetual reaching. The world becomes particular: each leaf's small geometry, each sound a punctuation mark.

Nothing asks for more. Nothing rushes toward what comes next. Here, in the soft emergency of dusk, we are all allowed to simply arrive.