I wake the wine-dark son stars flipping on axis transect nebular spires as the canyon like a watercolor fades into perspective wild rye clouding these moon-plowed fields where a river rock is space dust sky strangled in a grape vine helix galactic dissonance fighting the gleam of day the vortex into being and then this summer becomes the summer of Orion — in itself an ode to the hunter and are we not all hunters?
This is lovely!