She's sleeping underneath the trees, the frogs

She's sleeping underneath the trees, the frogs
are in the water. I can hear the breeze
move in the tops of river oaks. The sky
is one broad spectacle that stretches on

into the gulf and past Lake Salvador.
I put my feet into the mud—the frogs
hop heavy on the porch, a mosquito
makes music in my ear. I hear her dream

then manifest itself as swirling weather
coming from the south. I want to be
a thought that wanders in her thoughtless mind,

or feeling that escapes her eyes in wet
tears. The music is different in the dawn
than in the dusk when stars start to awake.