It was the crow’s fault.

It flew in at midnight,

its shadow the shadow

of cloud, tree and post.

But not of moon. The moon

was a cracked egg in the sky.

Throughout the night it dozed.

Then, as the thin milk of dawn

coated the earth, it stirred, its caw

a repeated whisk,

a repeated swirl of moon

into sun. Bright. Brighter. Brightest.

It poured sun on the griddle

of streets. Day puffed up,

a soufflé, a baked blend

with bits of house, walk, and hedge

folded into the rising mix

until it set, brown at the edges.