Seasons Change
The back-bent coyote stood alone
at the top of the graveyard hill.
He was given a name by police
after he visited fenced-in backyards.
He was an outlier in a conclave
of such nomads sighted in the city,
where built spaces of fresh cement
were crowding out wandering creatures.
Others did not see the grey outline
of his shape as congested clouds
veiled the early approach of evening --
as the bells of a close church peeled.
We sat around the fire pit exchanging
stories about night and the dead,
as the youngest poked the flaming logs,
sending sparks aloft like Roman Candles.
The unexpected scintilla of floating sparks
shot into the darkened air as a fiery fountain
of souls, ascending a ladder towards starlight,
listening to us and to what we do not say.
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