Up for water three in the morning

Up for water, three in the morning.

The house is a still thing,

just my own breath.

Then, the third board, past the bathroom door,

lets out its sigh. A low, protesting sound.

It’s always that one, a familiar call.

Every night, if I wake. It knows my step.

Like it’s marking time, or just stating

its constant presence. A slight shift,

and the quiet breaks, a little.

Nothing's ever truly silent, it seems.