I wake in the drunken, first light.
Heady in the peppered acres of the sky
Lawns are crowing out of night,
the red-roofed stable rising,
lower at this hour
than moon – flint shadows sleeping there
like shaded continents of maps.
A rich, wild blueness heavies
and apples the sun
in hoards, in autumn
rising from the river, mists of perch and roach.
These chickens rushing to the opening of windows!