written about the coyotes who visit my backyard at night |
The coyote's cry pierces the dark Primal and pure as my heart It is in this witching hour when The veil between our worlds is thin A sentinel on the hill stands alone Watching spirits of the wild and unknown Wander the night in search of a home. Surrounded by urban sprawl Plagued by poverty, boredom, and alcohol It occurs to me how spoiled we are With our warm homes, soft beds, and noisy cars Reminded I am each night around ten A piercing howl disrupts the comfort of my den By the lone coyote sitting on the hill Silhoquetted against the ironic glow from a windowsill. Kindred memories begin to flow Of a time not so long ago When we too fought to survive Kill or be killed to stay alive The hunger, the cold, the unknown Left to fend on our own Surviving collectively like exiled crones. A sliver of light illuminates the shadows A low soft cry emanates from a hollow Dawn is breaking through the trees Nature stirs in the crisp cold breeze And I stand on the hill's edge to watch The wonder of life below me Drawn to the intimate familiar Distant cries of the coyote. |