Originally posted 1/17/2013.

In late spring,
almost at the solstice,
far outside
my own home city,

I sit alone and eat a bowl of oatmeal
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, tender woman feeds a fawn
whose mother was killed by an 18-wheeler
this morning before dawn.

If any of those who built Stonehenge
were to appear here right now
they would at once recognize this light
as what they’d once seen through the pillars.