is like the light of a million stars,
distant, cold, hard, brilliant,
but this initial light,
shining on the wet black road
is closer to home than it seems.
The house on the hill
catches the first low light,
casts its shadow across the valley.
Leaves are silhouettes
on high thin twigs,
where the unknown
touches the known
Wind and water whip up the sandy soil
where trees shift and sway,
until leaf by leaf the November air turns to art;
and each breath exhaled, nailed on nothing,
animates the words we speak –
our hands rub the shadow of lamplight,
wishing this day could hold the night at bay.