Some kinds of light fall evenly into hollows unseen by peanut farmers

and paperhangers.

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!



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