February sun bleeds orange
staining mountains
Coyote interprets, musing,
and transcribes telephone lines
that grow cold with chatterings
of the night.

Under the filigreed awning
of a tamarack, Coyote regally poses
his most prominent
and interesting feature
is his long, proud
Coyote grins, beginning
his soliloquy:

"Some label or call me
a cultural anomaly," he laughingly barks.
The outer rim of his face
and an eye were visible;
the other half was obscured
by a bough, then he continues
his spiel.

"We create our own
mythologies. I
may be non-linear.
Well, pard! Better circle
the wagons..."

Telephone poles extend into the sky
reaching for the moon.
They pierce the dark
creating a fine web of stars
on his fur and Coyote
begins again:

"Being the people's poet,
I count the syllables
and breaths--the rise and fall
of one's voice--trying to understand
and examine the rhythm
of the world..."

Earle Thompson

Earle Thompson Page