New Morning, by David Chorlton

I am not a silent poet

Sunrise, early summer: mute
clouds in the east edged
with fire, while the still full
moon hangs cool above
the mountain to the west.
The forecast is for

a hundred degrees by
the afternoon, but now
the back yard wildlife
is coming out from hiding
to nibble at the edge
of early shadows as they cross

the freshly watered grass.
Sunlight through the window blinds
rubs against the wall.
Morning news has not yet risen
from that dark horizon

beyond which the meetings
are held to circumvent democracy,
and where nobody distinguishes
politics from entertainment.

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