The sun will come at the wrong time tomorrow; it comes up shortly after the humming, blowing, rushing, drooling, heaving, tossing, and turning cease and my tortured body melts in the bag and my head sinks – snoring – into the fleece.  The sun will burn the mist and the dew, it will dry the earth, and it will light up my endless night.  I will eat cold cereal.  I will hang my head from my drooping shoulders, lift the flakes to my mouth, and dribble the milk on the drool-covered fleece jacket.  But I won’t know, I won’t care.

 

My eyes won’t be open when I unzip the door-flap of the tent, but I will squint in the early morning glare, and I will wipe out the secretions of a disgruntled sandman.  Sitting at the entrance to the tent, I will see only mist rising from pastures and a lake as the sun draws the wetness from the world.  Here, the summer rides out the storms in darkness; I ride them out in my bag, my fleece, and my bright, blue tent.