As always in the morning, before dawn,
The three of us descend from the bedroom,
The dogs both eager to scout round the yard
For any varmints still intruding there,
Though raccoons, possums, armadillos don’t
Show up here any more; it’s only squirrels,
Too fleet to catch, but still fair game to chase.
That duty done, they do their other duties
And then want in for treats at the back door
And next their breakfast kibble in the kitchen.
By now my morning mug of latte’s brewed,
Which I take back to where my writing chair
Awaits. I settle in. I cock it back,
I set my writing board upon my lap,
Then sit there in the dark to see what comes.
The sight that I await is not with eyes
But in the mind, the darkness visible
Of some imagined scene or notion that
Might set my pen in motion on the page,
Tracing iambic ripples as they roll,
A carrier wave for messages that form
By their impulse, extending to the margin—
Then snapping to the start of the next line.
But just now Keena howls (as is her wont)
Her morning yodel, mournful, unconsoled,
Which Gyp now joins with whimpering yips that won’t
Be shushed until they’ve run their destined course.
Perhaps we three tune in to the same source.