Whether the world opens. Weather the world, open. A lark-full morning, song and sung, locked, undone and done. Grain and barley, gold as wheat, gold as dawn and dawn’s bright feet along the line beyond my sight. Morning full of morning things — walking, wilting, wandering, looking for another tether and a way to make the waiting wait. Mailbox. Keys. Coffee in a green cup. Electric ants in my toes. It will be a day of pages that require lines of sense, rather than scrawls of it, that shelve the hierophants alongside their mysteries, that demand a clerk’s and not a cleric’s hand. If the leaves could scatter down, they would be anything but Forms.