Soloists

The dog blunders along the field's edge
flushing swallows from the grass,
nosing at the mysteries of shrubbery.
Light sleeper on warm patios,
she springs up at intervals to bark off
phantom trouble. . . .

                                    And we see him,
the coyote, tattered, holding his ground
by the hill, flickering in this hungry hour
when night's opportunities evaporate.

What he brings back the pack beyond the rise
will tear apart. When she takes off after him
I don't know if she's chasing off a stranger
or if beyond the rise she'd added her note
to an older chord, her voice to voices,
her throat to throats.

Copyright © 2005 Jessica Johnson All rights reserved
from Red Rock Review
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission