What the sheep dreams,
I do not know,
but the mirror of a day jumbles
and obscures
redefines and enhances,
so perhaps their grass becomes
a jungle
where the hoof of those grazing before
presses an old track to follow,
fitting precisely with wet dirt
and exposed roots..
My dreams carry me,
sometimes through an entire day,
and while those presaging me
haven’t carved my way,
they too reside
on this earth I continue to walk
where the images that inform sleep
bring me coyote trotting,
between us only the window,
upon waking

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