Unsettling dreams, and now a flat mauve sky sliced against a rusty horizon; and now the log trucks roaring past; and now the windless shiver of their absence. Monson, Maine, 6:15 a.m.

In a moment I will put on my boots and cross the street for coffee. In a moment I will pull myself together for a day with young people and books and cars and responsibility.

For now I am still vaguely feral, lurking. Everything feels strange in this strange dawn light.

                All pauses in space,

a violent compression of meaning

in an instant within the meaningless.

Even staring into the dim shapes

at the farthest edge; accepting that blur.

--from Ruth Stone's "Shapes"