The birds are sleeping, it’s far from morning,

except for the birds who rightfully haunt

the dark, and the low-life, lazy geese

who’ve given up their fly-way rights

to live at ease around the man-made pond

below the ridge.They come around the hour

of the wolf and wake me up. I can’t help but

love their haunting, honking grief.

It sounds like grief tonight.

A white boat in full moon light is rocking

on the lawn. It rocks and rocks

like a giant’s cradle or a mammoth’s bassinet.

It rocks like a cradle for a god or a devil.

The white boat doesn’t want to go home.