Oh-three-thirty
the “am” is implied
it can be considered (in military speak)
as zero-dark-thirty
either way, wakefulness is present
outside the sleeping bag cover in camp.

Yeah, still dark outside
my hound and I go out
and the in the darkness
all one has to do is look
up. There is the splendor
of the night sky, clear, starry, unobscured.

Funny how neither of us even thought
about the night critters that may be about
he relying on my presence for safety
my reliance on him for his superior night vision
and sense of smell to warn.

What pictures are there painted in the dark
with steadying brush in hand, trying not to drip
dusky colors off the palette?

Looking up, at the show of night sky
there is no admission, save wakefulness
the theater is quiet, as if in anticipation
of the drawing back that thick purple curtain
still no noises, the dark is silent.

My eyes only see the the vision of the stars
that I am native to see
over the treetops to the left
are such bright pinpoints
close together enough to be a cluster, perhaps
one must be a planet, intense light from there
I shall have to find out which
still I realize that the visions
from the Webb space telescope
are far more lustrous, clearer.

Returning to the tent
the hot coffee is waiting
mist curling up off the coffeepot spout
like some close up nebulae in the cool morn.

I am full of wonder
not sleep, that was a thing of an hour ago

awaiting the sunrise,
and its chase of the darkness into the distant west.

Poem copyrighted 2023, Ray Whitaker