He loves his nighttime bed,
covers thrown off, all white and pale,
the thin, cold air incites his surface to pucker.
Down below, people are turning on the lights
in their homes, grocery stores,
even the banks with their automated systems.
There’s the smell of damp roads
and car tires sliding
on a dewy summer eve
when life seems eternal.
He recognizes all the dark places
where the momentary glow
from his big, shiny face reaches,
where the last cricket scratches,
where the leaves brush the eaves,
where the slumbering spiders
have stopped spinning their weave.
He passes over the construction site
as a vagrant raccoon
investigates the ell of the wooden frame
in search of a morsel,
tipping over a bucket of rainwater.
The large lake with its voice
of a mountain breeze holds its breath
when white light streaks its surface,
stops and watches,
for somewhere beneath calmness,
the undercurrent rolls a stone
and fish scurry.
Eventually the sun, even more silent,
arrives to pass over the treetops
and highlights them
in that haze of new light which signals
his persistent rendezvous.