I haven’t been out east in weeks

but the last dream I dreamed last
night was of the coyote;

with unreal immediacy I watched,
unobserved, floating by as it prowled
the porch boards,

emboldened by the late state
of sunrise. I know it goes there,
leaving clumps of fur and scat,

but only when we’re gone,

until now I’d never seen how close
it comes to the glass door,

assesses its reflection, having moved
from cautiousness to callousness
a long time ago,

it doesn’t flinch but moves along
as the day opens up, a pink dawn
until my alarm wakes me up,

returns me to the cold dark cave
of my room