In the hush before dawn,
the sky holds its breath—
a deep inhale of color not yet formed.
Clouds drift like thoughts
half-remembered,
fluffy and slow,
brushing the edges of the waking world.
A bird sings,
its silhouette etched
against the pale light—
a fleeting ink stroke on morning’s canvas.
The wind whispers through leaves
as if the forest
is gossiping with the breeze,
old stories passed from branch to branch.
By nightfall,
stars bloom like frost
on the black velvet sky,
each one a question
we forgot to ask.
And in the stillness,
nature does not explain—
it only shows,
and waits
for us to listen.
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