Like clockwork—a little after sundown—
Rosa raises her snout from her front paws.
It’s that damn skunk again. She whines and snivels,
and parades back and forth until you have to open the door.
You pray that she won’t find it, but you know she will.
And, by the way, tomato juice does not work.
Later, after you’re between the sheets,
you hear the first howl. Usually it starts up the valley,
and progresses downstream, as the conversation
is taken up by other coyotes, and probably a lot of dogs as well.
I’ve seen feral dogs, too, back in the barrancas,
perhaps abandoned as puppies, so skinny they can hardly stand.
Finally the coyotes are silent—silent as the shooting stars.
You don’t need to hear them to know they’re there.

Published in Litbop