I wake to waxy predawn light
and the dumb cries of mourning doves,
this summer’s song, like they were sent
to warn me, like they know something.
The air is thick with foreboding, damp
heat settled close around my heart.
I send you brief messages in code,
news of grizzly bears and chain saws
and other tales of tearing at flesh.
I have become the early bird, and
these dreams are my dark wriggling worms.