Magic is what happens when the sun rises.

This sunrise, I see mounting across the river,

hovers over a mansion that is only 200 years old.

A mansion where a family lived is now

vacant for thousands of other families to

inhabit vicariously. Flat stones at a bank

of the Hudson cool my bottom.

Flecks of a grey sky seem ready to peel

from clouds, thick as boulders; a hulling

light stretches candle flames the whole length

across the river. Shale reflects the tips

of the torches as the forest

sparks awake: squirrels crack twigs

and leaves; deer crash and break brush

and branches — stop, stand, examine me.

The goose flying high, I can hear as clearly

as if she is in the river paddling before me.

She laughs deliriously across the mountainous dome

of grey, opens her wings and becomes;

flying high! flying always! In all light and shadow!

The sun parts me, breaks me in two. I’m as compliant

and awake as every other movement towards wont.