Still

In the cool small morning
I grow into the night.
Out, past the soft swells of traffic
and far away planes,
past wind whipped trees
to the sleepy suburbs of my senses.

Where dog-bark bows
play strings of thin air,
where night owls and early-birds
pass under damp hedges,
their mumbled greetings softened
by distance.

In the cool small morning
I grow into the night
and I am,
still.