Coyote, Moving

by Elizabeth Crowell

The dogs pull to answer every creature,
bunnies, happy in the grass, squirrels
scooting up the ragged bark of trees,
the occasional two–legged being
sitting alone on a wooden porch,
head cocked up towards the sky,
humming with the whirly voiced crickets.

When the dogs stop, the leashes go slack.
A coyote and its streetlight–stretched shadow
stand in the middle of the street.
The pointed ears give him away.
She seems to be in a kind of agony,
bloodless, statue–still, chin raised.

She draws the masked folk from their houses,
who venture onto their lawns,
as if they have been islanded.
They know what suffering is,
this creature out of habitat, not herself,
nor can she be other, huffing and bowing.

Before anything can be done,
she slaps her raw paws on the pavement,
back into the swamp behind the houses,
her brown body gone
into tall grasses and thin weather.
The people talk about it for quite some time
before turning back inside.