From the orchard silhouettes
of night run from the dawn
The bat covers itself with wings
upside down
a dark fruit never picked

Voices from the field shift
from north to south
In the east a silver incandescence
in the dark begins to filter blue
Mountains appear
like ancient castles
in a vapor of blackness

Dreams ghost into high clouds
and preparations for morning
untied shoes and eyes shut with dream
Voices out of empty socks
hatch into visibility

lights fade into a blue wall
and the smell of coffee
on each breath
replaces a question
scratched into the path
of each calloused palm

I turn
to the silent growing
of seeds
no one hears