The coyotes understand that my body is speaking an ancient language, one they can almost understand. They circle by with yips and yaps, the leader gives a gruff bark, gather up, press, release. The moon is on the rise, always on the rise , always waiting, always balanced on one side or the other. Step, breathe, transfer the weight. “Here is the river”, they imagine my body is telling them, “Flow into me”.
“We chortle at your magic”, they say, “we have our own river”. They circle back, there’s not even a rustle, the wind waits till they’re gone. A siren screams up the boulevard that follows the river, on the other side. They take offense, they renounce everything my body is telling them, everything the siren is demanding, everything this open space becomes once the sun has set. Once all the levels of twilight have passed, they lay it all on the line, these jokers, and then tell us where we can stick it.