Dust

In my dream running after you, lungs aching as you rise above the shore on sudden wings, watching you grow smaller & smaller against the sky, I shout myself awake. It’s past four. A wind moves in the curtains, bringing the scent of rain.

I turn over, & something small & sharp pokes my cheek: the needle end of a breast feather from some long-dead goose has threaded a small hole in my pillow. I pull it out.

The darkness quivers with distant lightning. I lie awake, listening for the first rumble, the first random taps against the pane. Today, I think, I will take a broom to the stairs below the window where dust has settled in the corners of every step. An hour later, when the storm passes, the sky is already light.