I am sleeping less,
roused by wingbeats of Boreal Owls
circling ancient Cypress,
gripping knotty branches with a clutch
of talons .
When I close my eyes fists of wind
breech my seclusion, erupt through
unbound curtains of dark recollections
that vibrate through my hemispheres.
A soft breeze carries me through the
valley to a moonlit hillside of sweet lea.
A silver wolf lies down beside me.
He is the scent of golden meadows and
his eyes are the color of an eastern sky.