To build a nest of brainwaves

Beyond the dull hum of the mudcity sprawl,
wait for the meadowfox to vanish, den-deep.

Before new limbs find scissors motion
or aerial outlooks—fall still, swollen plume.

Tree ligaments tighten, knowing
every night was named for this.

Call it dew-spotted angel birth.
Call it thirsty perching wooden pedestal.