Once when we drove around the longest days
far beyond the border to the north
and during those first days slept hardly
more than a few restless hours
I stepped outside the house wakened
by the birds' territorial songs.
The sun stood at its lowest point
still half over the horizon it was perhaps
two or three in the morning and I groped
my way back into the darker room.
When I woke it felt like latish noon
the light came in at an angle that strangely
explained to us the hush since for today
the territories have been marked out for hours and we
are somewhere in between and feel at home.

Translated by Hans-Christian Oeser and Gabriel Rosenstock