Sitting On A Fence, Discussing Coyotes

Pupils wide and perfect circles,

black as the void sprayed with ice chips above our heads.

It is distant, alien and all too close.

The darkness is anything but empty,

like a bullet nestled inside a shining barrel.

Except,

it’s your soul

blasting out to me in a million god-like frequencies.

And I bite back a joyful scream

from the cracked wood digging into my palms.

I wrench the knob down on the tinny radio

that you insisted on listening to in the light of the moon,

like this night is a painting coaxed into waking.

The moment I met you,

words flowed silently from the broken howls of the coyotes you were dreaming.

You made them prowl on the canvas.

And you caught me up in the hazy light

of fractured thoughts smacked out in rich color.

You shook your blanket of myths and spread out worlds to me,

whispered the importance of a never-ending story,

and flicked invisible ashes from your fingers.

A comfortable, broken-in pattern always loops around your speech,

and you spread out your hands, gesturing grandly.

Shocking me with another Unknown Fact about coyotes.