Too still outside at 5:00 a.m.— 
few chirps, and those— far away.
No bee buzzes, no frog croaks
from the pond. The willow
and flowers barely sway.
Nor the thistle standing tall
and all alone in the yard.
The air, smelling like
old books, musty.

For what have they all paused?
Me too? Or do they simply rest—
anticipating what lies above
in the heavy altostratus cloud cover?

A shadow of a cat moves
among the stalks of liatris
and bee balm, above
the creeping thyme.
From a cloud overhead?
Or is this the ghost of old Butch
who passed early this morning,
on a journey to rest with
his brother, Sundance?

It might all be
from my imagination—
or is this Mother Earth
assuaging our souls yet again?

for Kathy, in memory of Butch, 2003-2025