In the lower meadow the lone coyote prances amongst the newly cut
hay. So rare to spy in broad daylight, the long-legged native most often
seen, like memory, slipping in and out of dusk. I know, it makes no
sense but all I want is to take this scrap of fur and make a bed of him
to rest on.
Night in the mountains up north; the sky drowning in stars and the
valley darkness’s accumulation. I feel turned upside down. As we walk
to our campsite I hold your hand tightly in mine, I have the idea you
will keep me safe. All between here and there is filled with coyote’s
yelping. Sounding like so many sorrows, then silence. Later we make
love in our tent, something desperate in my need for your body, I weep,
skin on skin.
In my own throat a high-pitched descanted treble. This is how I call
you to me (Beloved… Beloved…) from across the distances between us:
position, opinion, perception. Where are you? and I am here.
In the end I could not find the narrow ledge I would have called
concession. The coyote, that trickster, slipped into darkness. And in
what little light was left, simply, I would not give.