The Day By Leatherworth Featherfist In the morning when the light is unfamiliar, and the trees, brush, and grass hold fast in silence, staring at the horizon with me. That is when I think. In the afternoon when the sun rests above me, and I rest beneath the trees, lying in the grass, looking up at the leaves. That is when I smile. In the evening when the sun winks away, and the trees and the brush and the grass become one broken silhouette against the horizon. That is when I sleep. She cannot control that. Nor can I.