A whistle escapes.
Through the ether, it traverses.
Past clocks yet unturned.
And umbrellas never left home.
The horizon listens, quietly.
Absorbing each note, each pause,
Until it too, contemplates.
The song of the unseen.
Do they hear?
The echoes beneath
The tapestry of dusk?
Or spin tales of stars
Yet to be born?