Breaking Seam

The clouds crack open like old leather, spilling gold across the wet grass. I've been waiting in the grey so long I'd forgotten light had a smell— mineral and warm, earth breathing after rain.

A bird calls from somewhere verdant, its voice a thin thread pulling me forward. The storm has left its fingerprints on everything, bent the small flowers toward the ground, but they are already rising.

In this tender moment between weather, between what was and what arrives, I stand in the doorway of the sky. The puddles hold the light like cupped hands, refusing to let it go.

My own breathing catches up with me, finally, finally. The air smells like new.