dark arms reaching, unfurling.
their gnarly hands arthritic.
they lend themselves ever upwards
toward the great orb of light.
upon their arms are layers,
rough stories from birth and time.
hail or snow.
wind or human.
stoic, they stand through all.
in their hands
bright yellows blind
cluster and float
like billowing florescent umbrellas.
they wave hello
aware of their time.
in that moment
my feet lead me through
their aureole, their chuppah.
the staccato–
crunch.
crunch.
crunch.
echoing through damp cold
changing yellow to brown beneath my soles.
i awake.
the coolness disappearing,
and the glow of the nebraska fall
dims into the land of nod.