Coyote’s cry is ragged, anguished –
only a creature calling kin.
To coax the moment out of hiding

I cross the deck, a bowl of cream:
nothing moves. Then it does,
smudge at the field’s near edge.

Moon’s clambered clear of the pines,
musk on the air. A silhouette slips,
shadow to shadow, along the fence.

Mindfulness is skittish; it thrives on
patience – all I can muster,
then more. I know my part:

welcome the moon, the cream, a bark
that shreds the quiet, welcome sons
who don’t need me and think they do,

grandkids who need me and think they don’t.
Breath brushes past the ear.
A shade wafts by like heat.