Today's flotilla below the winter weeds.
Where the Words Are
When the day stops speaking
and my head empties, dropping into sleep,
the mice begin in the attic
delivering all the messages
I could not finish during the day.
And, in the scurrying, bits of text
drift into my dreams, so seamless
the transfer of information
that I wake, unknowing, surprised
by the ideas I have uncovered in the night.
The Long Night of Flying, Sixteen Rivers Press, 2006, page 29.