A dream to a large extent historically accurate

Intrada:

A dog is barking, squealing at times.

The sounds of distress.

The animal seems chained to a stake beyond the barb-

wired fence into the junkyard, deeply

toward the darkest end.  It’s a junkyard dog.

1.  I'm not one given to awakening

from fierce dreams in panic-driven

cold sweats like other poets in the neighborhood,

but curiosity leads me out of bed

to look out the window to see what's what.

There's clarity there, and the night sky

opens its eye to reveal its depth.

The barb-wired fence beyond the meadow is gone

as is the junkyard it couldn't protect;–– the junks,

replaced by neat, single family ranch houses.

There's three of them built upon the buried backs of the once

indelible cars of our fathers and their fathers before them.

Almost no frontage, but out back assembled swing

sets stand brightly colored (the sunlight assists)

in red, yellow and blue, inviting occupancy.

2.  A soft breeze nudges the crescent moon-shaped

seats from their stillness, with no signs of neighborhood anxiety.

The atmosphere strengthens with early morning's arrival

and translucent skies with feathery's high on the wing

performing in accompaniment.

Serenade:

3.  It's noted that I be so informed, and so I am.

And the song continues to come this way.