At morning in the river by the farm.
At morning in the river by the farm, the sun is shattered by a solitary rock. That rock, kissed and blessed by the whitest of light, is the first place I look each morning at the farm by the river while clutching a cup of coffee that was grown in the shade of a mountain by a farm that I will never see. Later the entire river is the perfect reflection of a flame, but the rock is brightest, and am I reminded of the coffee, viscous and alert, still sticking to the bottom of my coffee pot.
