Like a herald of the evening sky is the dawning light between the pine trees.

Gone is the work of day, moving aside for the campfire of the night.


For life is bigger than the back yard of the house.

And brighter than the twinkling of the night lights.


One by one I count them until I’ve lost count.

For who can count all those little lights?

One by one the sparks of the campfire find my legs.

For I twitch at the pain of those little lights.


So I drink a sip of cold tea and dream of worlds yet to write.

Gone is this old place, as my mind dances between worship and worlds yet unseen.


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