The speaker wakes at four in the morning from a dream of loss: someone is flying away, growing smaller against the sky, while the dreamer runs after them, unable to catch up. The shout that wakes them is the only way out of the dream. Who the person is, the poem never says, and that silence lets the ache stay open.
What follows is quiet and physical. A breeze brings the smell of rain, and a stray feather from an old pillow pricks the speaker's cheek. The feather, from a "long-dead goose," faintly echoes the dream's winged departure, but now the wings are reduced to something tiny and dead that can simply be pulled out. Then comes a storm, and the decision to sweep the dusty stairs. The mood is hushed and watchful, grief handled through small chores rather than speeches. By the time the storm passes, the sky is already light, suggesting the night, and perhaps the worst of the feeling, has been got through.