they come
in the quiet,
in the secret
place of thunder,

the voices
of ancestors,
of those who’ve
gone before,

they come
just before
you settle
into second sleep,

after reading
another chapter
in another book
you won’t recall

in a few years, or
maybe even a few
months, because
the words won’t

matter, don’t equate
to the fables whispered
into honeysuckle air
somewhere between