November Coyote


Coyote song floats

from the edge of the canyon

to the open hinge of our ears,

which were not listening for song,

but here it is, the high-pitched

warble as it reeves the wind, is it hunger?

Joy? How it scrapes at the house sides,

buckles the room, how it scours

sleep-full silence from the inner walls,

echoes, repeats, riddled treble of ring,

till all, all is listening to the invisible quiver,

a trill dancing free, loosed from the evening’s staves.

Shuddered air. A pause. Too much emptiness. Rest.

A gnawing quickens in the chest.

And coyote sings again. Again. For hours, we’re rapt.

O Listen. He’s done. What felt so whole

now feels as if something vital is missing.

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