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,
until seen elsewhere, such as Laguna Mountain,
a place in California 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 Read