Amy Brewster
Two coyotes rest in the shade of mesquite
as a jack rabbit leaps away,
long-veined ears signaling menace
of the human kind.
One coyote stands and lifts
his nose in my direction.
How calm he seems before me,
as if he knows I pose no threat.
This pause in desert space,
where wild meets human edge
is where I return year in year out
to the packs that howl me back
to sanity.
The prince of the desert turns,
and his partner rises to join him.
The heat of their furred bodies
coated defense against the January wind.
Over his shoulder a last disdainful glance
as he leads the way,
trotting lightly across the arroyo.
I watch them disappear,
the color of their fur blending,
with boulders and sand and sage.
Later that night a coyote chorus,
turns me outside.
And with Orion above me,
my soul joins them.