Photo by Yellowstone National Park

Last night coyotes yipped the dogs into a frenzy.
Smoke and wind and toads croaking out
their proud, weird songs.
The black river. The small stars.
I’ve started to remember my dreams—
it’s night, March snow covers
the hills. Last week a boy named James
dove into the river north of here. Four miles
down-current, a farmer
fished out his small, blue body.
Outside my window, a crane breaks
the last jigsaws of ice. Morning comes,
it always does, the rabbits scurry down
their narrow holes to live their underground lives.
They pip up in the sun, then
pip back down. I walk too long.
It keeps the stars circling. I run my fingers
along the tops of weeds. Every night a dozen crows
perch on the power lines and scream.