That mean nothing to him,
Coyote traverses the pale fog
Driven in from the sea.
He has a loan of time
To walk through his old salal tangled home.
Sneaking through nettles and Oregon grape,
He carries his battered canoe
Along cedar darkened clay
Back where he grew from whelp to pup.
Down whitewater roiling over boulders
He feathers the current with his paddle,
Turning in the current like a leaf.
The spent river slinks into the sea.
Pipers spoon their bills in the sand for clams
And robins claw at earthworms.
A diving hawk sends smaller birds
Tumbling into hysterical flight.
His bones feel fragile as obsidian
As he watches the green Kalopanish stop
And they all come to the end:
The river, the creek, and God's old friend.
---o0o---
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