At Dark-Thirty

I.

Driving at moondown

Along a fog-bound country road

Into blue first light

And early morning time,

I watch as dawn gathers,

Spins gauzy forms

and misty webs

From forgotten wisps of night.

Ghost trees float like clouds
Over frost-paled pastures;

In the dawning light

A gray mule
Might be a unicorn.

From the dark-gabled farmhouses

Yellow windows

Shine like homing beacons
In the lingering night.

Behind them I imagine

Warmth, homely sounds and smells

Embraced within that light

And a family's morning murmur.

II.

Of course he beat her. . . everybody knew.

Riding in to the early shift,

Yawning in the black dark before true morning,

I'd look over at her house

Like always . . . you know the way you do . . .

See the light on in the kitchen

And know she was there alone,

Drinking cup after cup of that bitter coffee,

Smoking her breakfast,

And likely nursing a new bruise or two.

III.

Their lights were always on by five.

She'd get the cook stove going 

And behind the thin curtains I'd see

The two of them, moving through their morning dance.

He fixed coffee; she made biscuits and eggs.

The radio, always set to the local Christian station,

Blared the good news of another day --

Weather, lost hunting dogs, cattle and trucks for sale.

He'd linger for that second cup,

Waiting till yesterday's hog prices were told.

Then, heaving himself up from the table,

He'd take his cane and tap his way to the sink,

Rinse his teeth and settle them back in place,

Ready to meet the day.