The day 

the coyotes called

while crossing the storm-swept ridge 

on the quick pebbles of their feet


a clear sky followed. 

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, you walked into the forest,



So much light 

filters through the branches


from within the storm

a clear voice


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