Sunrise, Without Trees

Things grow old
so quickly
in the fields.

Before long
it will be dawn
in Auroraville, Wisconsin.

Quiet as insects
the mares circle
and spread out

end to end,
a splayed green edge
of sweet corn

banking these
alfalfa fields.
Rising from rye grass

a few still to be
emptied cows traipse
slantwise before the sun.

Past the combine,
the honey wagon
still in shadow,

beyond the sway-backed
winter salt licks,
air assumes

an air of knowing
how long
and since when.

Morning
is an ageless girl,
hands warm with eggs,

and a voiceless
old man bearded
with his breath

strokes his glass
and rocks
a little harder.

In a world without
trees when the light
comes it stays, pulsing

as leaves would
if there were any
wind. The back

screendoor slams
louder than you
or I might suppose.

Birds are what he
looks for and,
neck craning

to listen--
there looks to be
birds.

poem notes