Morning I am
myself. I pander
out to the pinewoods,
perambulate Mooselung Pond.
There’s fresh coyote scat,
already a mushroom prongs up
from it. I gather
the canine’s tracks,
prints written in mud,
read where it came from,
where it went.
As I process these I am
losing part of myself;
I try to collect
the coyote’s scent—
who can see me?
Afternoon diminishes,
night sharpens its black blade.
Slowly I become
the coyote’s howl.
