The Morning Before Dawn
Imperfect though beautiful weather
Inflating the weather veins,
Carving the tombstones were the zoetropes
Of lost housewives step so
Carefully,
And the lost dogs lay- they have forgotten any
Names that man may have given them,
And they run from stone to stone
As if recognizing their lost masters,
As deeper in the foothills the elk step over
The blue echoes of Navajos and other
Nameless Indians,
Their bugles resonating and catching in the
Red clay,
Rattling the song birds awake so that the
Bring the morning before dawn.
poem by Bret R. Crabrooke
Added by Poetry Lover
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