Still going.  The hills
were plywood tonight,

rolled in from offstage
and heavy on pastels.

The rain passed
with alacrity;

the clouds that were
left were dumb sheep

things.  They say
the coyote came

as close as this deck,
more brazen in winter,

a prouder pariah.
I’m not there yet,

feeling little delight
as a photographer

shoots a wedding
across the lake,

flash after flash
ricocheting from

the water. In those
hills are mountain

lions, fewer now,
receding from the

sprawl.  Tonight
I would not mind

to hear their call,
a scream that could

raise the hairs
of the dead,

a terrible awful
beautiful sound.