Sunrise, in a valley

The sun might move east to west but its light
begins at the end, at the farthest hills
brushing them from the top down,
backfilling the valley in a smooth sweep,
lifting again for a stand of trees
or a hummock or rise,
brushing and pulling back again.

The sunrise fills a valley the way I teach my children 
to sweep, reaching out as far as you can
pulling the broom to you, lifting, reaching and 
dragging again and again, gathering it all to you
the way the sun reaches with its light, 
and gathers, gathers the dark.