Poetry

At the end of night the morning star is still shining bright
and it’s as if the breeze sighs in the trees
 
while last bit of darkness cannot last,
is hanging over the earth like a shroud
and outside a animal sneaks past
while birds are twittering quiet loud.
 
With gleaming eyes it peeps through a window
and while I make some coffee it jumps in,
climbs on the sideboard, becomes part of a shadow
and lies stretched out when the day does begin.