Sunrise At the Twilight Ranch

He sleeps late because the milk cows have dried up and the bulls long slaughtered. There are no cowboys in the bunk house just a couple of old chickens pecking the dirt floor, they produce, at most, one real egg a week the rest are malformed by spilled ink. However in the leaky cabin the big brown teapot is stuffed with scrapes of poetry waiting to be led out into the dusty fields, where the sun only rises and sets. with no daylight in between. As he does every day, he seeks a hollow in his landscape to bury words that should never see the light. He knows that, over time, if left to themselves, they will turn into little black spiders that will spin their webs between sunset and sunrise creating a gaping gossamer breach that will only lead to more fresh chinks in the wormwood soul of his tumbledown barn.