the
coyote moves below the power lines
endless, electronic futures
black
and bowed, humming overhead
his
spoor crosses our trails, follows them
reverses,
then vanishes
his
scat, ripe with the fur of beloved pets
and
new spring fawns dries under
the
hovering noonday sun
forever
is nothing to him
he’s
done that time already
this
is about waiting
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