The dark builds higher and higher, in the north,
until it crumples, and the rains begin. We tell them
about the ebbing of the light, but no one believes it,
not till they see the roaring firs, the tree shadows
jogging each other's elbows as they drink
the light down from the sky. Pitcher after pitcher.
They are inexhaustible drinkers, and they carouse
into the night.
It's not until they sleep that any dawn can come,
and any timid, wandery light can make its way
up into the washed and beaten hills.