sometimes there are coyotes
all around the house
they bed down in the front yard
in the trees and behind my memories
asleep with one eye open, stars
twirl the pole counted and known
they’ll rise and howl at owls, the moon
or anyone else impersonating
strangers who come up to the yard
they stalk a defensive perimeter
while we sleep while we dream
they open the fridge and eat
the last of the girl scout cookies
a little whipped cream for their coffee
come morning they’ve gone, a few
paw prints in the dewy grass
///
Not a Literary Journal: Ode to an Animal | PAD 11: Defensive Poem
James Brush is a teacher and writer who lives in Austin, TX. He tries to get outside as much as possible.
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