i wrote this sometime last week in one of my non-sleeping modes. i think i sort of like it. at least, it described the moment fairly adequately:

The clock's heartbeat echoes its reminder.

Sun-whispers echo off the moon's blackboard,

And the stars are breadcrumbs on a path,

Assuring the day's return.

Still, I want to run the streets,

to prance through those fields--the ones we passed earlier,

whose work infused the air with earth, nostalgia, and home.

But the field's familiarity--

it has fled with the light on their journey.

Maybe it wanted to chase life, like me.

Anyhow, here I sit, in the

thick and sedative trance of nighttime rhythms--

Clock, car, owl. Breathe.

Creak. Readjust. Settle.

Is that it? Does nighttime even

itself become familiar?

No: the light leaves, in its wisdom.

so we may readjust.

So we may be reset to see beyond our eyes--

and instead by the closeness of

humble cycles--swaddling our chaos.