A pack of coyotes
mad with joy in the dark
eyes flash fire 
lighting clouds of rising dust
weeds fly, crush of dry leaves
beneath their chaos of sirens
as crimson dirt makes the death bed
of some small being
who didn’t stay hidden.

Tufts of fur drift to earth like ash. 
Bones splinter as they growl 
and snort and chew. That quick. 
We never want to think of this 
but it’s true. Like bandits in the night 
or starving mothers, 
like men at war they attack, 
so purely, so absolutely certain
it’s not possible to judge them.


for Terre and John Devilbiss      
Rogue Valley, OR
from ‘House of the Unexpected’