Two red beacon lights shine
above the eastern tree line
precisely where the sun will rise
this time of year in Santa Cruz,
two lights as if the pink sky
weren’t signal enough for dawn.
How many folk of this urban tribe
are sufficiently unengaged with yawns,
family, phone, dollars, work, caffeine
to pause for the first glimpse of real light
climbing through pink toward
white-turning-to-blue sky — aubade to
devices that blink & ping, crush of concrete,
forgetting the lure of wild life.
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