Coyote lives in the park
a green plain drapes
away from
his urban wetland homestead
of
Cattail, Redwing and
Willow
a remnant and reservation,
of ancestral time.
Coyote watches through
leaves
a circling of poodles on
strings,
parades of running others,
the bounding Moon between
their feet,
chirping songs when nets
bring Her low,
a cry left deep in his
throat, unshared.
Coyote waits for night,
waits for ground thunder
foretelling Buffalo’s
return, waits for
the long silence between
things and
the slow gathering of
darkness
across the writhing world.
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