The twilight of the morning

The holes of the lace curtain, Having closed the winter windows. Life shimmers like so coveted blueberries. So many pieces of obscurity. The tops of the trees are spinning in the wind, In a semicircle, back and forth, Like whipping up the raw material for a biscuit. Or maybe they're wringing their necks? The wind has thrown the rumble of trains Into a soundproof bag. Every human is asleep.