You come into the
yard, along the stream’s edge
Sniffing.
Watching.
You don’t carry yourself
stealthily.
But sometimes what
looks like “frisky”:
Front left paw bent
out at an angle
(So dancer-esque!) –
Perhaps is Stealth
in disguise?
I know you’re a
“he”.
You look directly in
my eyes
Unabashedly, deeply,
One pane of glass
and seven yards of grass are all that separate us.
Oh, I know!
I’ve seen You
before.
Several months ago You
followed this same path on the edge of the lawn,
But then You were
headed north, not south as You are now.
And hey, weren’t You
the little one who crossed the road before me in the darkened street
One night last
month?
I saw You.
Yes.
As I paused in the
middle of my paved road -
The asphalt that
bisected your woodsy journey -
I watched You
Watching me,
Halted.
(Yes, we looked each
other in the eyes that time, too; now I recall!)
Your kin who dashed
headlong into the woods
Adjacent to my
cottage,
That was not You;
That coyote was
bigger,
Older,
Wearing the scrawny
over-thin body and
Too-thin fur.
Not You, little one.
You look fresh and
new.
Your body has grown
bigger since last we met
But your fur is
thick
Luxuriously clean:
You do not look
underfed.
(Are You eating those
chickens again?
I eat chicken
sometimes, too; I cook mine.)
Or is it the rabbits
You prefer?
“Rodents”, You say?
“Well, which
ones?” I ask.
“Do You actually
taste the difference or
Is the fullness of your
belly your simple criterion?”)
Yes. Yes.
You are coyote. Not the wily one
Of my cartooned
youth.
Instead, You are the
one who visits.
And your presence
offers me joy.
Wild One with daily
routines –
On the few occasions
they’ve coincided with mine,
Bring me great
pleasure.
I hear You, perhaps,
and your pack
Howling, and
I see your scat
scattered all over the adjacent forest.
Please come visit
again:
This is my mantra –
I welcome You.
All blog photographs taken by Jennifer J. Wilhoit unless otherwise noted.
