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three at once
They just move, they trot.
They wrap themselves around the edges.
coyotes
Uncooperative with sight, they canter over us. They pass into the membrane of light dropped automatically on my yard – on the fawns and the quail – automatically on any movement after seven pm in the Autumn.
Feeding their way into us.
Feeding on dumpster composites, on offal opened by ravens. Feeding with the landlord's children. Licking disposable dishes with his kids.
Popcorn spread by crows. Nosing and hearing forward on beams of scent and eyeshine.
They are big and real. They are juggernauts grazing, saboteurs in training. There are three of them at once.
The cat's eyes are bulging behind the window. |
