It's Still Life

At the Window, Late

there’s something in the glass —

not outside,
not in.

a shape
that moves
when I don’t.

I look straight at it,
nothing.

look away,
there.

again.

it could be reflection.
but of what?

the room behind me
doesn’t hold that outline,

and the garden,
too still
for that kind of shifting.

light changes it.
or makes it.

I can’t tell.

a branch, maybe
though there’s no wind.

or someone passing,
no footsteps.

I raise my hand —
it doesn’t follow.

lower it —
it waits.

and then,
as if it knows I’ve seen,

it’s gone.
or closer.

Written for Writers’ Digest Poem-a-Day Challenge for April 2026. Prompt word: ambiguity