Coyote Rising
Jo Gerrard
It is black midnight
when words echo senselessly
off the dense green of trees.
Hekate's owl settles
on a twisted branch
bearded with Spanish moss,
her eyes amber disks of the moon
in the darkness.
Her luminescent figure
rises again into the air,
white feathers brush together,
a whispering breath
lost in the wind.
Dance after her between the redwood trunks,
deep in the green forest.
Spin past a creaking giant
into a moonlit clearing.
Hekate's owl sits on a silvered bush.
She watches, unblinking, as Coyote rises
from beneath its branches
and pads forward.
The dark star on Her forehead
draws your eye as She turns Her head,
Hekate's eyes and your feet follow Her
as She parts the brush with Her nose,
and reveals a sleeping cub.
Somehow, you know He is Her gift,
an answer to an unasked question.
Kneel, gently sliding your hands
between the earth and his body,
feel the sleek warmth of his skin and fur.
Sleepily he licks your chin,
the stroke of his tongue warm and wet,
and then he nestles deeper in the cradle of your arms,
his tiny body heavier
than you'd think.
Her owl's wings rustle
a summons to the clearing
where Bear and Antelope greet you;
you join the circle
between Coyote and Wolf.
Their warmth and musky scent
and the sweet weight of the cub on your chest
bring sleep's peace.
Rise to reality,
but tend the cub
whose weight still rests in your arms
and against your heart.
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