THE VOCAL MINORITY

Night showers, cold damp dawn,
intense coyote octaves shrill—an eerie 
screaming claims the canyon

as I search for forgotten details 
for the morning’s branding, 
worried for baby calves

before the crew arrives
for coffee and last minute
plans.  What rarity has triggered

this assault on silence, what wild 
imperative, what joy requires
such passionate agreement?

What have I missed
not learning the language
after fifty-five years?



I really dislike word press. I have wasted too much time today simply trying to pass along a comment on your blog entry today about coyotes. Before I moved to la la land north, at the ranch I used to enjoy this vocal minority calling to each other from valley floor (even if at times it sounded as if it was coming from just outside our bedroom window) to the upper hills and then beyond into the canyons and back again. Lonely.  Eerie.  Beautiful.
Keep on writing, my friend. You weave beautiful poetry beyond telling city folks about life (mostly work) on the ranch up Dry Creek Road. 

s