Many

The night feels far. Day lasts long

This time of year in the hills.

Hills are dry here.

If days on the lake were near,

The glare of sun on the waves

Would shine like coins,

Wealth flesh and thoughts could dive through,

But all of those coins get lost

In the dust here,

And it’s just mind craves the count

Of all hours of nights, of days,

Of dreams, of coins.

The mind gets tricked by its counts.

Heat fades. Long nights won’t be long.

Sun’s coins make moons.