There, done. I watched it once again,
       — at four fifteen today,
      on the last day in May —
sunrise. Day's sudden juncture

so predicatable: what is lit first
       — and always the longest:
      skies, steeples, roofs —
and what will be lit at noon only,

when all shadows, for an instant, recoil.

Bitter-sweet hour, dawn
       — for the listeners of bats
      shufflers of night —
when darkness pulls back, yes,

but light comes too fast, then arcs
       — with day's bane
      of locusts, traffic, rain —
flares down everything,

and all shadows stretch, then recoil.

At dawn: may I die
       — during those mingling,
      willing hours —
when colors are tender

and lazily blend,
       — when waves braid
      their light in the sea —
and there is time

before all shadows, for an instant, recoil.

Leave, slight as a bat's whir
       — when night recants
      but day is not ablaze —
and before the cicadas

jab their relentless jeers
       — cheater, cheater
      cheat, cheat —
I'll go then: at dawn. Silent, slow:

the way a shadow recoils.