At night, we hear dim, percussive scrabbling on the roof.
It’s hard to tell what makes these sounds: animal or dream.

But then again, it’s always some kind of hunger
that drives one to the edge. Animal or dream,

whatever sharp fingernail has roused us from sleep
only means the season’s knife has turned. No dream

prepares enough for the shearing of what used to be
green on the branch, lush in the grove. Koi dream,

but closer toward the bottom of the pond— They barely
swish now: scales muted, their gold a murky dream.


In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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