Saturday, February 16, 2008

coyote call

Hope is revolutionary patience.   Anne Lamott

it is quiet tonight, Saturday night
not even the frog's chaotic calling
rippling this dark stillness
deep silence echoes itself
calls to and enfolds into itself

I am waiting for the first yip-yip-yip
barking and pause, barking from the South
wait, I know it's coming
barking and chuckling from the East
from the top of the ridge, overlooking
this small house

there, there is the laughter 
bark, yip-yip-yip has another joined
this banter?  now the howl
one syllable drawn into an impossible vowl
if I have a ruff, it stands up hair by hair
North is summoned

to the West is the river
muddy from rain weeks before
to the West is the run-off pond
where the frogs call until footsteps pad close
and the chuckling and barking 
take up circular yodeling

this dark winter these voices
like ghosts, circle in waves
make the galaxies overhead a cathedral
awaken me from deep sleep
pull that long note
from four directions
I think about the patience it takes
trusting Buck Eye to burst green
then Mayfly to fill the sundrenched spring



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