Of the First and Last Impressions

Tolstoy’s theory of dreams
Only rarely holds up.
It’s eerie when it does.

You’re driving in the dark
And are forced to brake hard.
A car’s stopped on the road.

What is the commotion?
At first, it’s just traffic,
But then you see the wreck,

And you hear a woman
Crying out in great pain,
A kind of sobbing howl,

Almost song-like, wringing
Terrible inflections
Out of a dropless tone,

And you wake horrified,
Then realize you were
Hearing the canyon wind

Howling around your roof
As distress in your dream,
And this time, Tolstoy’s right.