Through Thin Slats Poem by Steven Federle

Through thin slats
I see how flat blue hills
wash out to whiter dusk,
rise to garish sky,
where tenuous day presses
even the setting sun
down to shallow grave.

But here, deep within this room;
I am safe, surrounded
by circle of empty chairs….
peaceful meeting,
vacant stares….

where I wait for night
to unfold this paper land.

Then, with bated breath
will I hear the fated cry
of coyote, the riot of
lusty toad.