Subdivision Dawn

The day casts grey,
dawn’s light wears a cloak
as it slinks through my windows,
shadows tinged in darkness.
Awake, but not, I lay in bed,
sleep’s effects clouding me
like a hangover with no reproach.
Standing, I stare through the blinds,
the cloudy sky looks back,
and I look at the tops of houses,
clones of clones outstretching on.
I miss the country,
Days waking up to see trees,
miles and miles of forest leaves
as they enveloped my eyes
in deep patches of dark green.
Now, as I strain my eyes,
I see the far off underbrush,
last survivor of what was,
what will never be again.
And in the dark morning light,
I am sad for that,
but at least I know the past,
and that memory will carry me
far off into the horizon.

By Carl Wade Thompson

Sunrise over houses filling a valley

Author PhotoCarl Wade Thompson is a poet, essayist, and the graduate writing tutor at Texas Wesleyan University. He has published poetry and memoir essays in The Mayo Review, The Concho River Review, One in Four, Anak Sastra, The Galway Review, The Blue Collar Review, Piker Press, The Eunoia Review, Blue Minaret, Nebo Literary Magazine, Alphelion Literary Webzine, and Labor: Studies in Working-Class History of the Americas. He lives on the outskirts of Fort Worth, Texas. His poems explore the link between the urban and the rural.

Photo of suburban valley by Jit Pin Lim

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