Threshold

The breath before thunder arrives, light bending green through leaves that haven't learned to fall. In this inch of silence, a bird's wing folds like a whispered secret.

Your hand reaches for the light switch but pauses—fingers suspended— because turning it on means the evening is over, means whatever was almost spoken stays swallowed.

There's an art to holding still. The spider knows it: how to wait for the web to hold, for the prey to arrive at the exact geometry of capture. Time moves sideways here.

We sit in the car before getting out, engines cooling in the dark, knowing that one more minute stretches into mercy, into the only perfect moment we'll have all week.

Then the key turns. The door opens. The threshold dissolves. Ordinary gravity returns.