When White Hawks Come

I dreamt        the spirit of the codfish:



          in rafters of the mind;



fly out into the winter’s



           blue night;



 mirth off alder       tendrils sashay;



 while I set up



             my winter tent;



 four panels long—beams suspend



 I sit & pull blubber strips             aged in a poke bag;



 I’m shadowing the sun                    as a new moon icicle



 time melts    when white                     hawks come.