YAWN

your hoof prints dent the field
while snatching silence from its perch-
you snap a twig in the midst of other twigs
whose eyes are stuck to wooden ribbons
lazing prone upon the earth where you tread
with your antlers unadorned.

the dream ends there, and you can feel the vibration
of a leaving train rumbling through your archives
with sticky steam… you blink at the window
with its sun pheasant 
scratching at the glass-

as you yawn.