The Threshold of Summer

It is the final day of May, and the air carries the subtle weight of the coming season. I walk a familiar trail through the old forest, where spring’s green has deepened, and the birds grow quieter, as if conserving their song for warmer days.

The trees stand tall in stillness, their leaves stirring only faintly. I pause at a moss-covered bench and sit without intention – no goal, no destination, only the soft unfolding of the afternoon.

A small squirrel darts past, then freezes mid-step, its tiny form alert and poised. A butterfly drifts lazily between shafts of light. Everything in the forest feels neither hurried nor idle – just perfectly placed in its own time.

As the sun lowers, casting long golden shadows, I realize I am watching the season breathe.

The forest is neither spring nor summer now. It is simply between – a pause, a moment of pure balance. I stay until the first stars become visible above the canopy, and then, quietly, I make my way home.

The threshold has passed. Without effort, the season turns.