It gets light late;
it gets dark early. Somewhere a switch has been flipped: the flowers hold on for their very last rejoicement; the water will soon shiver itself to crystals. You leave nothing behind; you leave everything behind; sometimes even God is at a loss.
A grey haze overhead, a flupp, flupp lazy flap of flag at the cemetery. It's a flupp flupp kind of morning. The mourning doves lined up on the powerline out in the country all face the grey western horizon. They have nothing, they want nothing; they leave nothing. It's a clean life: you live, you give, you die.