Set the dark to hushing.
Beyond the silence, their muzzles.
In the year of long pollen
where aggression sinks its crusts and clouds return
to flesh horizon, we come undone indoors.
Canines thread through this mortared light
imposing their congested howls.
We hear their blades and hollows from the bottom
of the night. Wings unfurl from branches.
Feathers find their angles.
Next, the claws and gullies, the valley feeding.
Wind moves without good reason.
Listening through the wall,
we’ve knuckled back to silence.