Morning Ghosts

Slow footsteps from the door to the street.
Grey mist hangs and surrounds everything.
The haze of dreaming has bled into waking.
Trees appear as if they were ghosts planted
into the ground. Listening for a sound or a 
word but there is only stillness. Rays of sun
are hidden but lurking. Awake but unsure.
Even the birds are silent. Eyes close. Listen.
Where is that which does not wish to be heard?