sora.day
Before the sun decides to rise, the sky still keeps its night-thoughts. A single bird hesitates, then begins.
The first warmth crosses the windowsill. Light arrives in fragments — a copper line along a roof, the inside of a leaf, a cup forgotten on a table. Nothing is announced. Everything is being shown.
Look up. The sun is too bright to read.
Shadows lengthen, drawing the day's geometry across walls and floors. A tree casts its noon-self elsewhere now — thirty paces east, a stranger in cooler light. The world tilts toward gold without announcing the angle. Time, here, is the slow lean of light against itself.
The sun negotiates with the horizon. A long descent, a slow burning of edges. The west fills with colors that have no proper names — a coral that remembers fire, a wine that tastes of distance.
Below the line, the day is already ending. Above it, the day insists on one more minute.
stillness.