Penguin Dream

This morning between the fuzzy edge of night
and the sharp line of the alarm

there was space to dream I was a penguin.
It was the sight of snow that did it

yesterday evening, blanking streets
and sidewalks to untrodden white.

Ice-laden wind murmured in my sleep
and sleet pellets scarred my windows with tears.

In the brightening 6 AM shadows
I dreamed webbed footprints on the snow

first a single dotted trail, then criss-cross paths
then a wide circle packed down hard.

As if a whole mob of birds had gathered
creating an arena with the work of their own feet,

bowing and nodding, showing off the elegance
of our curving necks, sleek black backs.

Shimmering aurora and LED clock-face
in the polar half-light of my bedroom

lit our dance, hand in hand in a whirling crowd
on the edge of a night-black ocean.

Now I look at my hands, surprised not to see
black feathers; surprised not to feel
another’s touch.

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