Where Echoes Hide

The house is quiet, nothing moves, hidden in the rise of the early morning dawn. Stepping softly across the flooring grooves come shadows of newly awakened yawns, The morning sun rises steady and slow as some figure moves barely seen and heard, a vision familiar and missed, an image well we know followed instinctively by life once incurred. The dog asleep on the sofa, stirs wide awake he watches cautiously following it with his gaze. recognizing the features in the steps and shakes. he moves to the vibrations of the call then stays; it is the echo of his master returning here, once more speaking then singing softly in the hazy rays touching home through the opened door. I rise from sleep, sure of the sounds I heard somewhere in my forgotten dream, The past returns with echoed whispers blurred. and sense, the feeling, the unending stream of faces, voices no longer present but in my heart. The images hide and only on occasion speak calling to me softly with echoes in the dark hiding in the memories I keep.