Lone coyote whispers
through the shallow grasses that
bind the ridge above to the creek below.
The moon throws off the last of its
refractions from the deep end of the indigo sky.
This morning he is lost in the
abundant daily question of life or death?
He has no executive function impeding his
drive to enjoy just enough. Lean and righteous,
there is no doubling up of sentience upon itself,
no hierarchy of needs, no thing beyond being
what he is in this world. His next breath is his bearing.
His next meal, the whole of his sustenance. Untroubled by his
profound singularity, his laser point solitude,
he observes no beginning, no end to this
moment of now. When I sense that coyote is my
brother within this darkness, blood-bonded in the
savage peace of waiting on the new earth,
I inhabit his breath in plain living, and
I eat of the meal with his hunger for nothing more.