Unseen

by Annette Snyckers

This morning at half past two
the wind held its breath –
the air hung limp,
the night was hot, aglow.
I lay listening to the hours,
the buzzing of the stars.
Inaudible, still,
our wellworn orbit.

This morning at half past two,
a tree standing tall
in the moonlit forest –
cracked, softly sighed
and toppled over.
No wild wind
beat it, pushed it,
no chainsaw chastised it.
No sleeping pheasant objected.
Only half an hour later
a dog barked in the distance.

This morning daylight reveals
the still green corpse.

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