5 a.m.

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.

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About Ray Sharp

Father, poet, triathlete, local public health planner
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