A dangerous time: these hours in the night.
In the maple outside paired crows squawk through rain-wracked sky a bit frayed at the edges then batten down the hatches and keep going. In our apartment, the cat staggers loose circles on the living room rug. Head off- kilter, eyes shaking like marbles. Body pitched over as if on deck. Then crouched underchaired in the corner. We watch shaken from sleep by the crash of the falling. We’ve called for help. Minutes pass and then some. Was it the blue-tailed lizard? The chips of paint? The meeting of skull with floorboards? The phone says disorder says wait. This is ataxia. This is nystagmus. The sky’s clouds are God’s fingers. Like gray logs. The light flank of morning showing through. I can’t tell the difference between desire and design. The lake distinct and glass-faced. Did the rain intend this blind beating of leaves? Skin-shivered morning, wind-headed sky riddling the screen. Off in the distance, zoobirds mumble and disperse. You whisper There is a change.