Tonight, even the pitchfork
leaning against the house
wants to be something else.

In the barn chickens dream
of pink carnations.

A cockroach on a light bulb
imagines an egret with wings
smooth as waterlilies.

A mare pacing in her stall
dreams shes a crepe myrtle.
A cow, a swarm of bees

As for me, Id like to be
a flock of crows, or perhaps
the shadow itself, dark and empty,
drifting across some dusty field
like the black breath of a god.