Coyote

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.