Nothing howls
in the before daybreak meadow.

Nothing thrashes.

The moon, a temple orange
low large on the horizon
rough skinned
waits sour for morning.

Powerlines filament buzz
like walls honeycombed over decades
plaster stained by sweetness.

New frogs hesitate
when I shoulder scuff gravel
close to the long grass dew:
spring peepers
stop their throated bell trills.

I dreamed last night after an April storm
rain sweeps pushing from all directions

the scarlet tanager that broods five eggs
outside my office window.

I dreamed weather reports about anvil clouds
thunders’ hyperbole, red and green radar buds
tornadoes that knock down towns with names
like wildflowers
like cupboard essentials
like pioneer stock.

I dreamed the freckles of a woman’s chest.

And when I woke lizard smooth
and no three in the morning could cure that

I walked:

tables of fields
moon silvered furrows
shades of grove tree blindness.

But now
the marsh ditch water is shallow with blue algae.

The green leaves, the air, the unmarked pathway
outlined with cardinal feathers.

Just before sunrise birds
sound like chlorophyll smudges on my shoes
like dragonfly wings (wax paper, olive oil, water, sunlight)
like shriveling blackberries.

And nothing breaks from the brush.

Nothing takes flight over my head.
No rooks, no pheasants scatter
at this slight intrusion,
no chimes of wings, no burst of confusion.