The hoots in the dark grow closer
to sounding similar, a conversation
from ground to tree, a rustling of leaves.
Muffling a weak calf into the hollow
of my hand, she turns, looks back
and finds what she has hidden in the grass.
You nicker with him when he’s done well,
let gentle whinnies roll into your laughter.
Howling with coyotes since children,
we become them, feel each tone wash
through our flesh. You never forget
what the words mean, if you’re listening
—for sound and motion of the universal dance—
for the truth in heart and mind. When Mountain
Lion gathered the animals at Wuknaw,
at the head of Antelope Valley, each perched
in a circle of rocks that yet remain, they agreed
to create another creature to speak their tongue.
drycrikjournal 