Where Yesterday Meets Tomorrow

The morning mist still clung, heavy and cool, to the edges of the sleeping field. Birds hadn't quite decided on their full chorus, just tentative chirps, a tuning of invisible strings. I walked the path worn smooth by countless feet before mine, the ones who lived stories now just echoes in the dew-kissed grass. A spider's web, intricate, held droplets like scattered pearls, a fragile architecture of morning. And there it stood, weathered wood sighing, a sentinel of silence: "By the squeaky old gate that tomorrow will find". A hinge groaning like an ancient memory, opening to what's left behind, or to the sprawling, uncertain green of what's to come. No grand pronouncements, just the slow unfolding, the quiet breath of things always changing, and the persistent hum of moments, waiting to be lived.