Art by Amber Liang

A sparrow flutters at dawn,

its wings as frail as the whispers of first light.

It lands on the edge of the windowsill,

its eyes glinting like dew on untouched grass.

The world feels slow,

as though the clock hesitates to tick,

the air heavy with the sweetness

of blooming jasmine and yesterday’s rain.

Its beak taps the glass—

a sound so light it feels imagined,

a gentle plea,

a secret too shy to be spoken aloud.

And for a moment,

the sky swirls in soft pastels,

the kind of hues that only linger

on the edges of a child’s dream.

Somewhere, an omen stirs,

but it is not in the sparrow.

It is in the stillness that wraps the room,

in the way the sunlight folds itself

across the unmade bed,

a golden echo of what could be,

of what is yet to come.

And you,

barefoot and blinking,

hold the fragile morning

as though it might shatter

if you breathe too hard.

The sparrow lifts,

its wings catching the weight of the day.

And as it vanishes into the endless blue,

you wonder

if innocence is the only omen

you’ll ever truly understand.