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
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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