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.