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Coyote on a Winter's Eve

A poem.

Coyote on a winter's eve The coyote glides into view, fluid
 and wary. Pale against the cedars
 he tracks along the slope,
 mapping its contour.
  Sometimes on a winter's eve
 he finds scraps here. He mouths
 them on the trot, glancing over
 his shoulder at the house, not
  trusting it for a minute. Inside,
 lights blink on and a young dog,
 warm behind the glass, barks
 a warning, wails his sudden
  longing to lope off too,
 shoulder to shoulder, knowing
 deep in his bones how to match
 that wild gait.
  Sue Wunder

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