They called again
just after midnight

up in the hills
behind the house

several coyotes
come down close

masked by the night
protesting the absence

of the moon and the loss
of the four, five,

six deer that trickled
past here earlier,

a river of hooves,
still in the road

like figurines
before scaling up

an abandoned lot,
this landscape

swallows those
who wish it

willingly,
the vineyard

sobbing like doves,
the grasslands

hissing like
cicadas.