First light I had not paid attention to dawn rushing the ground like a tortured spirit its jarring solitude ringing clay hills like chimes, feeble arms outstretched, tendrils clinging to cold morning surfaces climbing their way up into night’s windows, their twilight faces awakening to the shock of the searing eye climbing the edge of the horizon; first light, like a trumpet at their walls. The ruddy light, silent, opens its red mouth, unfurls its scream at the warm edge of the spectrum, splatters clouds with blood drops, rose petals, echoes of sunsets spun backwards, spilling pitchers of red wine in its wake, then shakes its golden mane at the mess it made, already behind it far on the horizon as it rises in stately adolescent yellow © Jonathan Bohrn (2008) Last light Day done, it slips below the horizon like a turtle in its purple shell, a ball of stars rolling down its surface while it sleeps © Jonathan Bohrn (2008)
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Our night under the Desert Stars
