Clouds and rain on the tips
of mountains prodding the sky,
music pouring from some well,
I stepped into the light.
– Quinton Duvall (“XII. Testament”)
Too much moon to sleep,
coyotes make contact.
Break dark silence. Call
from every draw that falls
into the shallow creek.
They need no code
to translate, to decipher—
no allegorical symbolism
to paint in pastels,
no words at all, singing
to one another like poets
tend to do trying to reach
a high note, one last pitch
at heaven with no one else
to listen but quiet darkness.
It’s what they do at night
in the spring, stirred
from dreams to yip and howl.
But to truly call it music
is only a matter of taste.
for Paul and Quinton
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