Even now, the news glides like manes
and tails over me to pass beneath the sun—
sometimes precursors to a good rain,
a dark storm, but mostly mean nothing
to horses and cows, to the bobcat planted
at the outskirts of Squirrel Town, haunches
frozen in the filtered light. There was a time
I yearned to find my legs elsewhere, test
the edge and taste the wild among the crowd,
lust in love and make news of my own.
But born in the sticks, more like a coyote
than a house dog, I crave the space to grow
gray within my nature, stay to the canyon
and let the headlines pass like one more
empty cloud and save my howling for the moon.