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.

Articles by Eric Trethewey