Sunrise hung in foggy strips,
curved Thief bunches gleamed
among the finger bones
of getting a handle on trees.
Mizzle had mugged the day.
Light black whiskers spotted with cuckoo spit
had carried summer
under contorted roots.
Bill shaped an Indian posse
to grab the light back.
Later, separating the scalp of a fence
we saw the sun
tangled in an old hawthorn.
Meg, the more youthful sister of Bill,
needed to shin-up and remove it.
There was a shot
we would see her pants
we consented to provide for her a leg-up.
She trekked up that hawthorn
like a squirrel. Her thin appendages
wound through the spiky twigs
until about half-route to the sun.
Crows capered up high
to unwind
the snaked strips of light
from the snarly brier.
Wood shook, thistles shook,
twigs slackened their grasp
as the sun rose.
Meg whooped and practically fell.
We young men smiled.
Bill took a gander at us
as though we were insane.