Tugged out of bed by a dream,
he enters the world, confronts
cats stalking the hallway,
aghast at this early walker.
The moon, almost full, glows
on the crust of old snow.
Back in the bedroom, his wife
dreams in a world that is his
to return to. Perhaps.
But for now he’s here
by the window, moonlight
glazing the earth.
He is watching five foxes
drift through the yard, gather
for a moment by the pear tree,
sniffing the air, inquisitors
out in the cold. They turn to what
beckons higher up on the ridge.
—Eric Trethewey
