Ode to Not Reading the News After Waking by Kathleen McGookey

Image via Lukas Stoermer

​Dawn starts at ground level, offering the same soft promise, but new. The near trees pull their limbs out of the dark. The ones in the distance hold the few lights of town like fallen stars. Now the brake lights of the school bus flicker down the dirt road through the trees. No mist today. No rain. No lies yet. Now darker gray streaks the charcoal sky. To sit and watch shouldn’t be hard. Is that a glimmer of frost on the dried milkweed in the field? A crow taking advantage of the whole sky? A hunter firing shots at any available prey? An hour passes as more light arrives. Now sunlight grazes the crown of the tallest oak, its leaves muddy brown, but still bright against the brightening sky.

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Kathleen McGookey has published five books and four chapbooks, most recently Cloud Reports (Celery City Chapbooks) and Paper Sky (Press 53).  Her work has appeared in many journals including Copper Nickel, Epoch, Hunger Mountain, Los Angeles Review, North American Review, and The Southern Review.  She lives in Middleville, Michigan. Find her online at: https://www.press53.com/kathleen-mcgookey