At Dark-Thirty

I.

Driving at moondown Along a fog-bound country road Into blue first light And early morning time, I watch as dawn gathers, Spins gauzy forms and misty webs From forgotten wisps of night. Ghost trees float like clouds

Over frost-paled pastures; In the dawning light A gray mule
Might be a unicorn.

From the dark-gabled farmhouses Yellow windows Shine like homing beacons

In the lingering night.
Behind them I imagine Warmth, homely sounds and smells Embraced within that light And a family's morning murmur.

II. Of course he beat her. . . everybody knew. Riding in to the early shift, Yawning in the black dark before true morning, I'd look over at her house Like always . . . you know the way you do . . . See the light on in the kitchen And know she was there alone, Drinking cup after cup of that bitter coffee, Smoking her breakfast, And likely nursing a new bruise or two.
III. Their lights were always on by five. She'd get the cook stove going  And behind the thin curtains I'd see The two of them, moving through their morning dance. He fixed coffee; she made biscuits and eggs. The radio, always set to the local Christian station, Blared the good news of another day -- Weather, lost hunting dogs, cattle and trucks for sale. He'd linger for that second cup, Waiting till yesterday's hog prices were told. Then, heaving himself up from the table, He'd take his cane and tap his way to the sink, Rinse his teeth and settle them back in place, Ready to meet the day.