I always greet red dawns with caution.

Farmer’s daughter,

I turn over countryside sayings

like hard-boiled sweets

in my mouth.

The syrup long since sucked

from the center,

now all crunch and brittle,

the shards pricking my gums

in warning.

No amount of scoffing,

can keep my grandmother’s voice

from speaking to the dawn.

Soft, and familiar,

chanting the same words,

myth

now made fact.

Red mornings are both beautiful,

and dangerous.

We should watch

for a change in the winds.