It's Still Life

The grass wears its dewy jewels,
knowing the sun will claim them.
One white feather, soft as whispers,
caught in a bare branch thorn.
And in the garage,
a sparrow sings itself to sleep.

And the birds still think I am morning

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