From behind October Mountain, the sun is slow,
stealthy, as it rises, one increment then another,
until it is day, the day of my life in New England,
a locale high up the sun’s wake-up call list.
What is seen day in day out is unlikely
to escape the grey space of commonplace,
except when seen elsewhere, such as Laguna Mountain,
the California locale of a family event, where
The sun, as if it had reflected on the merits
of 300 million American days underway,
bolts over the ridge at once, rising to stare
into my eyes – to give me the third degree.
– Dave Conlin Read