Morning in those fields is the prickled fur
of a fox weaving through thickets,
or a raccoon, or the mussed pelt of a deer
matted with witch-hazel gums and sedum.
Above the brush a stratosphere of dragonflies,
some flinty dun, some caribbean chartreuse.
The earth sweats leprous sweetness. And you wake up
settled but placeless, purblind, half asleep,
saying the litany of things.
Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 20, Issue 3.
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