4:44-5:55AM

Hunters morning, or maybe trackers morning
or maybe
the mornings of mist are for angels
hovering over all the wetness
of becoming once again, every day again
and there is no-one else around yet
and maybe never but
that is not so bad - not so anything
that isn't just as it is, as you are
in tenderness of working through
tall grass in the fog of slowness
as dawn blurs the edges of existence
and the angels see you asking
"what is true?" and the hunters
fire a shot and the trackers shake
their heads and the doe meets
your path and looks you in the eyes
and the promise of protection is made.
in another moment there is the last
bloom of the season between your fingers
and it seems to unbecome too quickly
a part of the atmosphere, shuddering
its dusting of day into the world and it
gets smaller or maybe you get bigger
and there is a sigh as the world settles
into what is to come, with the edge
of the woods still holding onto midnight,
you sit & listen, so the trees can know you.
the angels find you; the memories
remember you & the hunters put
away their guns