Early there was no more sleep in me.
Outside, the world was spinning potions of the short summer darkness into slow color:
Grey bucks under a lamb grey sky stood among the river stones,
tossing their antlers like crowns.

A white crane sat on the fat green branch of an oak: a single light for a late homecoming.

Sometimes you can be saved from drowning in the middle of a field,
just by the way the thorn vines have burst into bloom.