Moki Hour

Every day is strange
In its own way.
Every day has its own
Magicks, white, black, and grey.

A morning begun
In dark downpour
And exhaustion
Might weirdly, around four,

Suffer a brief burst
Of joyous perfection,
Bright sun on high red cliffs,
A mind too light for introspection.

This is no insight.
But still it surprises,
How our damned peculiar sun
Never sets as it rises.