the deck is in moonlight filtered
through the thick shroud of an eastern pine,
bent four trunks to heaven
with branches askew and needles entwined,
superimposed on shreds of clouds
drifting off currents of night
in the far distance, a siren on route nine
replaces my quiet with an automatic gratitude
for the immediate circumstance of me and mine;
as the wavering fades toward silence,
a coyote sends an answering howl echoing
a mystery, a quick shiver of intensity
resonates a call, imagined of misery
and arrested tranquility—
theirs and mine,
I cannot say for the canine
whether eerie or majesty or a certain sympathy
pointed lupine nose to sky
in lament like the world is ending,
in lament like the world is why
a siren calls and a coyote cries;
with branches askew and needles entwined,
I turn away from the night;
I retreat back inside
photo credit: he zhu, Unsplash
Farmer-ish 