It is 4 a.m.,
and a black dog breaks
crust on old snow – stumbles.
And a full moon looms
to reveal just east
a crackling of limbs felled
by gathered frosts and west
a barn owl arcs silent – a slurry
of cream, hunger and brown
winter kill hovered and plunged
by moon and yellow porchlight.
A black dog stiffens and sniffs –
limbs give no more crack.
I know only this:
It is 4 a.m. – something bled
and something fed
in the moon and yellow porchlight.
Image: Cassi Josh on Unsplash
Sweet and Bitter Greens 
poetry is a beautiful language with which to speak of things. wonderful
Thank you so much! D
You are very welcome.