There is texture
in the first light
as if god
has yet to wipe
away the sleep
of night
that forms
a spider-raised web
Bird song thunders
Even the sky yawns
stirring the trees enough
to pretend they shake away
their dreams of travel
They are the only ones
consistently aware
of the journey
through the stars
Corn creaks and
Beans fatten
in the mirrors of dew
We want to believe
all is right with the
world
only to turn on the news
which completely
fucks up the morning
Barry G. Wick
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