Coyotes by Pamela Porter

Some nights, just as dusk fell,
they’d clamber up the crags
in rocks as the last strips
of cloud turned to gold, before
the night closed in. I’d listen
for them, the young, the old,
who threw their heads back
and sang the stars in, a risen
curve, a dome of night as
the stars one by one broke through.
Such cold desire, such a moon
that soared into the sky
on their yips and howls,
who sang a river until the hills
lay down, and the stars curled
their tails around them.

— from Juniper Volume 8, Issue 1