The day the coyotes called
while crossing the storm swept ridge
on the quick pebbles of their feet,
a clear sky followed.
The woolly clouds fled the valley
as if the coyote’s sibylline song had scattered them
like thick cottony seeds,
or a crowd of sodden sheep.
As the leaves dripped and glowed,
I walked into the forest, amazed.
So much light filters through the branches
when from within the storm, a clear voice beckons.