Dawn

Before anything, there is this — the dark leaning back like someone who has said enough. A bird, practicing. The air with nowhere left to be. Light arriving the way good news does: quietly, at first, then all at once. You have stood here before, at the hinge of things. You know how it goes — how the sky goes soft, how the world takes one slow breath and agrees to begin again. This is the hour that keeps no record. Only you, and the pale gold spreading like a rumor that everything might be alright.