Bright lights on the horizon at the break of dawn,
waiting out the end of their shift when the sun takes over
and darkness keeps an eye on the rest,
so the lights can rest.
Bright lights on the hill and on the southern riser.
The morning leaves me with a chill as the neighbors decide it’s too cold
and too bright.
So they close the window
and turn out the lights.
The world is already alive with the buzzing of
a thousand bees who work for the sun and the trees
and all sorts of flowery things.
I hear the screams,
of the light, slowly being extinguished.
Bright lights, blinking and standing still,
except by the trees where there is no people.
The cold digs deeper into the bone
and all looks peaceful over there.
The more I watch them,
the more they stare.