The woman asleep upstairs in the old summer cabin
awakens to the voice of a psychic Welsh friend
four states away. She hears her name called twice,
the voice pitched low, low and guttural.
The woman peers out the narrow open window
to the left of the fieldstone chimney.
A black bear growls up at her, once, twice.
She recoils from the cheese-cloth-screened window.
Theirs is now the last dwelling on the former dirt road
out of an upstate New York hamlet two miles away.
The steep last 80 yards of their road is still dirt.
The woman will recover sleep but is somehow changed.