Awakening

In the fringe between farmland and forest,

resplendent in russet, the old dingo sits

and lifts his muzzle to the marshmallow sky.

The rising shape of his howl, suspended

in the space between what was and what is, 

slices the silence, descending the valley beneath.

He descants his losses, a lone lamentation 

that hangs in the stillness of dawn’s sullen air.

As you stir in your bed, whisper softly,

I hear you and awaken from slumber

to his song of despair. While he makes his last encore, 

and silently slips into softly striped shadows of eucalyptus.