Early Rust and Rise

The clatter splits the dawn like a cough—

metal groans awake, complaining, slow.

That creaky spring snaps somewhere inside,

a rough laugh scraping the still air.

Fog pressed thick to glass,

I watch the neighbor’s shadow stretch

through wet grass, the gray light

folding back into itself.

The door lifts, stubborn and slow,

a tired beast waking,

a sound like old bones cracking,

punctuated by a sharp hiss.

This rusty morning yawns open,

and I am dragged upright,

witness to a sound I forgot how to hear.