The Threshold

The light shifts incrementally, a degree at a time, and we don't notice until the air tastes different on our tongues.

The birds rearrange their arguments, they sing in minor keys, teaching themselves the grammar of a world that's rearranging itself.

Shadows lean longer against the hours. The earth breathes slower, deeper. We are standing at the edge of something we cannot name yet, holding our breath like it matters.

The change doesn't announce itself. It arrives as a whisper through grass, as light filtering through leaves that have already begun to understand what we are only beginning to feel.