Carol Wiebe

It Is Night Wind turns back the sheets of the field. What needs to sleep, sleeps there. What needs to rest. The door has fallen from the moon. It floats in the slough, all knob and hinges. Now the moon’s so open anything could walk right through. Only the fox is travelling. One minute he’s a cat, the next a coyote. Enough light to see by yet my mouth lies in darkness. What needs to sleep, sleeps there. What needs to rest. Outside my mind, the wind is reckoning. Alway