Winter still, the light comes long after I rise above sleeping streets, stoplights blinking yellow, yellow, yellow at the corner. Quick mix muffins in the oven, radio humming quiet news, and I under skylight in the shower, soaking in the early dark, late stars. Half-past five Iím on my stoop, watching you drive the empty street, ease into park before me. I greet you with muffins, mountain dew, music. You, in red car and ironed shirt, smile hello, too early for words. On the highway, the horizon is violet, flecked with stars like first freckles in summer. Now they fade; soft with shadow, fields emerge around us, morning geese rise to flight, now black against the rising sun. We drive east. Together, the sun our guide, and still between us, quiet.
28 June 2004