He clicks off the reading lamp, and it is
almost morning.
Already the crows are calling and answering,
making their own perfect sense, and the sun
is steadily, imperceptibly, climbing the east hills
to wash away the dark night of words,
the ancient litanies of pain and death
scarcely interrupted by the occasional cry
of a neighbor’s chained dog or a nearby owl.
Soon it will be safe, for the world will
step again
into its garments, and light will seek out
every corner, each black universal truth
that haunts him. Has, how long? The day
will rise
to its obscure bright work, and he can sleep.
— Richard Frost