In the cool, small morning
I grow into the darkness.
Out, past the soft swells of traffic
and far away planes,
past wind-whipped trees
to the sleepy suburbs of my senses.
Where dog-bark bows
play strings of thin air,
where night owls and early-birds
pass near dew-damp hedges,
their mumbled greetings softened
by distance.
In the cool, small morning
I grow into the darkness
and I am,
still.
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