By Gatis Pāvils

Most of all, new morning

smell of a thousand blades

of grass, perfumed with water

arising from the river

the mist. The catalyst

of dreams of heat, strength, paddles

awkward familial camaraderie

and scrambled eggs prepared

over bonfire. (though some said tea

tasted as adventurous,

we never tried it that way, for lack of pan

or heed).

Post-enslaved colony blessed

with white nights

light swallowed by itself

procures no novel meaning

bungles old.

Yet, the morning is as discrete a ritual

as any.

Especially in front of a tent.

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