KENNING

Triangle light plays on carpet fibers
plays a dappled morning dance of still
shut blinds       and under
softly shut eyelids, a play
of kitty paws
                                                 purring


71 degrees. Feels like 68. Wind is
fair, rain unlikely, clear, clear sky
tells a story of Storm run off
with Heat,       left us
for another season
                                                 shifting


There in the boulder-buttoned wash
trot the merry javelina
tracks.       A yawning stretch,
front-n-center: the absence of sand.       And
under city-jaundiced clouds against changing
night: wordless, the practice of heartbeat
felt in fingers, absence felt
as fullness,       we knew
likely another shift
                                                  coming


Half in shadow, a snorting thump,
snout and hoof, then
a sudden stillness       full
on the path before you:
wind scent, wild scent, scent of
       sun
                                                 waking

and of clay and whiskered milk breath,
curious snuffle,       then kitty paws play dancing,
dabble in drawing a triangle of morning

light under eyelids.

                                                  somewhere, you know, it is raining
                                                  and somewhere not quite time