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.

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