At six a.m., there is no ridgeline
to separate day and night, work
and sleep, dreams of what could be
and reality, balanced before my eyes—
no reasons sure without possibilities
I nurture and respect, keep alive
like cattle, a herd apart from madding
throngs beyond these hills, that become
my flesh, tended by these plodding girls—
that I believe at times that I am one
among them, ruminating in the shade
of the wonders before us, this perfect world.
drycrikjournal 