Some kinds of light fall evenly into hollows unseen by peanut farmers
Some fall into open eyes of cattle tanks.
I wake up cold mornings to a private light
my tongue a cotton mouthed moccasin coiled around bamboo.
I remember the wings of a white crane surging over me when I was a boy
wading in Stephen’s Creek.
He was following the flow of water where it empties in the San Jacinto.
I could have jumped in the air and touched him!