Don Thompson

Last night I heard coyotes again,
less howl than stuttering yip,
as if their teeth were chattering
in the fierce cold.

They come down from the hills
every winter, closer to us
than they really want to be:
Their eyes reflect in the porch light.

Hunting mice in the fallow fields,
they’re not hungry—not yet—
and certainly not lonely,
though they would be if they knew how.

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