Before morning the dogs would raise snouts
To our sleep, in dreams whenever we turn dark
And philosophically conscious of a short tether
And we cant go very far, beyond the immediate.
To the mountains is a stretching of song and god
From a sea that raged alternately in wind of trees.
September or October will be a snow mountain
Because we want to do something then to fill
Our vast spaces between now and a mountain.
A whistle in the night brings mountains nearer.
A dog's snout of cry to the wind, a stick tapping
The earth for stories, between now and mountains
Fills our impermanence with vast windy stretches.
We wouldn't know where night ends, space begins.