Coyote song calls the quarter moon
And
draws it over the rumpled edge
Of
my life, out where the pines shelter
Unborn
dreams, each speaking another’s name
Until they all glow bright
In reflected hope.
This mountain stream was, a moment ago,
Made
of stuff the color of moonlight. Fish
Hear
my steps on the ice and rush away to
Tell
others that the prophecies are true:
Drums proclaim a thaw
If we will believe.
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