Porch lights glimmer like glowworms.
A lone kitchen light already on.
Someone’s brewing coffee, swallowing comfort.

Solitary man walks his dog,
jogger passes, ponytail swinging ‒
a pendulum keeping time.

I love this time, before night shakes off
its velvet cloak and stretches, before
imagination fades like melting snow.

And yet, black tree shapes looming
on the horizon resemble a tsunami’s silent
approach. Low down, between dark clouds,
a faint glow hints at dawn’s promise ‒
a respite from this chaotic world.

Fires, floods, breakdowns, war.
Glaciers melt, refugees search for safety.
Three friends on chemo.

I grip the steering wheel as I cross
the swollen French Broad ‒ a wild ribbon
filled with broken trees, devouring its banks
like the first mouthfuls of doom.

At the Y, warm water surrounds and soothes
as I circle the pool, backstroking towards dawn.
My brain counts laps instead of imminent
destruction. Ceiling skylights morph ‒
inky black   ashy gray   misty blue.

The rhythm of rippling water
drops me back into my body,
which will end but not this morning.