Every day begins the same, facing west.
From my seat in the corner of the kitchen, I look out toward woods I cannot yet see, the day’s sun waiting behind me, across the yard.
Broad hickories and spindly locusts stand as black forms reaching tall,
arm in arm, into the deepest blue to say,
“This day will be a fair one.”
Through these trees each evening, I watch the last glimpse of the day’s light slip into the horizon with a great and colorful splash, while dinner bubbles and boils on the stove.
Then, moonlight until morning.
And the next begins, again.
The sun’s rising, though, I almost never see.
Except what light, from behind the barn, sneaks past to tint the tips of the trees, on that fair day—a perfect pink.
And if I rush to the edge of the yard,
and catch it creeping onto the fields,
I find it peeks into the dim east barn windows.
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