Time seems to pass;
a new day awakening.

Time rolling into moments.

The wind blows in the trees;
and a leaf drifts slowly down.

A storm is coming it seems.

I am muddled in my dream;
it melts away slowly it leaves.

This house is very old indeed.

With many cold rooms inside.
a relic of an old Victorian house.

Much too big for this girl.

With creaking floorboards;
and dusty dark places lurking.

I pick up my dented old tea kettle;.

I like things that are very old;
I seem out of place in this world.

Beneath eaves pretty birds chirp.

Do the birds look into my windows;
I wonder the odd world they see.

Are the birds looking at me?

A girl with a teacup in hand;
I wonder do birds even think?

Are the birds looking at me?