Searching through some old journals, I came across a poem I wrote, dusted it off and gave it a little space to breathe again.
Lucy listened. Late night coyotes calling their mamma. Suckling pups–drinking moon’s milk, watching stars fall, creeping quietly through wet wood leaves.
Waiting, worrying. “Mamma, take your babies and run!” Scary humans walk the night way. Can’t collect them under warm sweaters, milk them people-food, teach them coyote ways. . . can’t be you today.
Coyote listens. She howls. She prays.