Foretoken

At 4 a.m. it happened again
the drumbeat swiftly, loud-
a single wretched sound rushing
through cold-shouldered pines,
the sleeping woods to pound
against my window.

Now, the night lays down
its secret sadness at my door,
a gift to those who've dreamed it-

the sleepless owl, snow-covered hills
and I, awakened in the near-white
streak of morning.