At 4 a.m. it happened
again, the drumbeat
swiftly, loud-
a single
wretched sound
rushing through
cold-shouldered pines,
the drowsy wood
to pound against
my window.
Now, the night
lays down its secret
sadness at my door,
a gift to those
who've dreamed it-
the sleepless owl,
snow-covered hills
and I, awakened in
the near-white
streak of morning.
