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.
Imperceptibly cooler here the breeze a bit nervy but nothing has changed except the date a sense of closing distance but also wonder– the moon narrowing a door reopening is it any wonder that signals might get crossed? . Desert-bound to sort it out with arid skies and flat nights to measure against– heat dampening ambition where small flecked falcons coast in draggy circles beneath a pitiless sun their shadows scripting out something wholly unintelligible– . and where I can accept this
OPTIONAL POETRY 