The Hour Before

The dark holds its breath. Not yet morning, not quite night— that tender blue hour when shadows blur at the edges and the world remembers nothing.

A single bird calls into the silence, asking if anyone is listening to the space between sleeping and the first light's sharp arrival.

The trees are still dreaming their green dreams, while dew clings like a secret whispered between the grass and sky, caught between forgetting and waking.

Soon the sun will shoulder through the horizon, demanding the world remember its colors, but here, now, in this held moment— time moves like water, like breath.

This is where patience lives, in the pause before the day rushes in, in the gentle blue that asks nothing except that we wait with it, suspended in the hour before.