Street Writing*
He woke before the sun.
The sun wakes, you know?
Sit in a quiet place before dawn, where you have a long view to the East, a long view to the horizon, a long view, and at the moment of sunrise you will see the sun open it’s eye slowly, surely as farmers open their eyes in the early, early morning, and you will know.
If he was anything, he was a farmer, and so was something.
“I am nothing at all,” he thought in the darkness, yet he was everything, for he was humble in the first light of the waking sun.
*can be done on a rock by a river
- Trevor Scott Barton, stories for a brown-eyed girl, 2020
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