Just Before Dawn

Here in my darkest hour, I lie grasped
among the roots of damp and mossy oaks
while overlooking black alfalfa fields,
above which coming fogs will linger long
and float suspended there.

Before my sight, the mists rise from the grass—
out of green, bowing blades and stems—and drift
above too many weeds, scattered throughout.
This hollow, my own resting place, has been
so silent for the last few hours, calm
before a new sun rise.

Rough nature, under autumn’s outstretched wings,
sits unconcerned with raging fire tongues
out in an unseen distance just beyond
the far horizon, cedars-broken, dry.
I see the smoke. . . almost.

I crouch, observant—bark crags at my back,
rough, rippling, as is throughout these woods;
they prod me and they, also, feel alive—
and begging God for clarity, I pray.
I pray my blood will slowly become calm,
be neither ice nor fire.

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