It's Still Life

And the birds—
the small ones, the unnamed ones,
the ones who live in the hedge’s dark heart—
they mistake me for morning.

I step out, and they sing.
Not to me.
Not for me.
But because my shape in the door
means it’s morning.

I am, to them, the predictable thing.
The hinge on which the day turns.
They do not know my name.
They know my hour.

Some images are a collaboration with Midjourney; all writing is my own original work.©Misky 2006-2026.