Coyotes weave the ridge with polyphonic
song. They call our cat.
She loves the bones of small night creatures
skittering their hunger dances in the dark.
Coyotes sing that song. They sing
anybody’s hunger under an empty moon.
Our cat sharps the chitter of her jaws.
She has no sense of size. Owl talon,
cougar claw, coyote calling.
She’s sweet as salmon from a tin
and safe behind our doors.
We snap the latch and listen.
Coyotes go on improvising song
that touches a raw hunger.
How soft it sings
the moon the dark
and just to her.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem