August. At sunrise, a fox (barefoot on porch above, I clutch steaming cup to rumpled horizon) runs downhill, stops, curls tail around nose, drops. The morning mountains: rose, blue, hung in mist. Behind me you have seen all this before, nothing new but me. Recede. The scene: in June, morning, and you at my door. Shy in blue sweatshirt frayed at the cuffs. Your eyes smudged with sleep. I rise from my rocker, with twice-warmed mug; held steady in your belief. Sunlight, and I loved – without words, no need to explain this little world to you – you knew.
13 December 2003