A fib

An
arm
comes up,
breath in steam,
eleven chortles,
a new morning is rising fast.

A fibonacci poem. Don't ask me where the eleven chortles came from – they were somehow associated with the morning imagination that brought this forth.

Oh, for those who don't know: fibs are six-liners with 1/1/2/3/5/8 syllables.

This is my second one. The first one was more or less this in the language of Hölderlin, Goethe & co.