The misty window of spring

opens to summers heat.

I am sleeping less, roused by

wingbeats of Boreal Owls

circling ancient Cypress,

their clutch a tangle of talons

over the branches edge.

When I sleep fists of gusts

erupt through unbound curtains

breeching my seclusion with

dark recollections that vibrate

my hemispheres.

A soft breeze eases across the

valley past a hillside where the

lea is sweet and filled with moonlight.

Lying down beneath spangled skies

the gray wolf lies beside me.

He is the scent of golden wheat

and the eastern sky is crimson.


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