The sun has broken
free from its night spent

                                          wrestling with the dark
                                          side of the earth. I look

             through the lowlight at the small house
             on the hill, the one with the even smaller

                          people inside. The more I know how fast
                          they move, the less I know where

             they’re bound to land. I’m left to imagine
             a line of ants as they amble down the brick

walkway, the grass around them growing
only to spite the blade—their rebellious little nothings

                          continuing everything. But some small things remain
                          slow—ivy slinking up the stucco, the constant crack

             of music in the tree rings, the leaves unaware
             of what they’re opening into. Not a single cell

                                                        in my body knows who
                                                        they might become.