Coyotes

A few flakes in the air, all curlicue
And calligraphy, the silver-nib
Script of ghostly poets in waistcoats.

With snow this deep it's more like
Shoeing than
Skiing. When I rest on my poles,

I see the familiar logos etched
On the card stock:
The twin curving teardrops of deer,

Delicate scrimshaw of birds,
Furtive beads of mouse tracks,
And everywhere the paw prints

Of our surburban coyotes—amber eyes,
Hunched shoulders, tight
Curl of tail—here, now, peering at me

From the covert of a blackened sumac or
A jumble of broken trunks
Ridged with snow. Their eyes

Are portals into a cunning hunger.
The road noise fades on the ancient
Prairie, all skulk and survival.

Albatross  22: 6.