The elusive mist of July morningtime

tickled his ruddy cheeks in a familiar dance,

as the sun dragged its sleepy limbs

up into the sky of a young day.

He and his golden hat, a Pennsylvania halo,

sat like roosters before dawn

pretending there was nothing to do.



The clamorous serenity of the farm

drove him to drink and pout,

and blow angry notes into a tired harmonica,

that was wet and warm with his breath

and fed up with his whining.



When he next bothered to look up,

away from his dusty boots,

he noticed the sun had crawled up higher.

The shadows had moved, and the morning mist had vanished

like old fireworks

into the cloudy fields.

There he sat,

with his Pennsylvania halo,

farmhouse harp,

and dusty boots,

like a rooster before the dawn,

pretending there was nothing to do.



Cars and trollies rolled through his head

to the blue tune of his harmonica.

He saw towers of glass and steel,

dancing women,

pizza and milkshakes,

but he smelled only manure

and tasted only the dust of the scratchy straw.



At noon, the sun sat right above his Pennsylvania halo.

His lips were numb,

his eyes were red,

and he sat there still,

too far behind the day to try to catch up.

He didn't wish he was someplace else.

He just pretended he was ...



... So he sat there still

when the mist of the July evening

came riding through the chirping farm,

carrying on its back the anxious summer moon.

He stared up into its lonely glow,

thinking about a million other roosters

who sat all day,

pretending there was nothing to do,

waiting for the dawn to arrive.