Waiting For the Light


So black I cannot tell where the sky begins,
but the birds, settled in the branches of a naked
maple near my car, begin to call forth the light.
Soon the darkness breaks, the air
becoming the color of bruised flesh
slowly healing like the places inside. The mist
grows from the water and moves in towards
the land, spiraling shapes that meld and mold
against the sand. Two men walk by, voices
like truck engines, and I almost get out to tell them
pay attention.
But instead I turn back to the water, watching
the sky burn, and light walk on the sun’s legs
                                                                                into the day.

Kai Hoffman-Krull