In the early morning fuzz, a smoky inhale of life
the lamppost is lit and the trees are just waking up
Five Forty Two Am: the eyes of the sky are grayly
I hold my stave high as I begin my very first poem  

Bushes and creeks containing tiny quakes of light
piercing through a silent heaven, I feel alright
Sleeping in the room next door he is unaware
of the awakened altered state that claims me

Down the path of memories I go alone and safe
standing behind a closed window, vouchsafe !
Smoke blankets the city on this Friday morning
I can't touch the fire, I am only its town crier

as I write about the residue of the wildfires,  
                I can see the peeling back of its slight
                                 and know instinctively,
                                          It is daylight....