At half-past three,
coyote cries wake me.
Whines and yelps resonate off the hills,
plucking theta waves until
I’ve locked my lucid gaze
on a lunar lake
beneath the windowsill.
Beyond the farmhouse walls, they all
have woken too.
Listen-
The toad’s tremulous tunes.
The owl’s hollow hoots.
The swallow’s swishing swoons.
The cattle’s morose moos.
This is the hour of symphony-
where dewy dreams bead
the sharp blades
of reality.
Quiet, humanity is still sleeping.
pm poetry 