I’m eating a bowl of good cereal
in the kitchen of a house with a model
of Stonehenge on the coffee table
in the living room.

In the back bedroom,
a tired but tender woman feeds a fawn
whose mother was killed by an 18-wheeler
this morning before dawn.

Outside and for miles around
the frozen ground assumes the role
of moat for this sanctuary.  Inside,
the air feels old, and careful.

If any were to appear here now
from Stonehenge’s stock, I think
they would recognize this light
as something they’d once seen through the pillars.