Saturday, August 30, 2014


Dawn. Coyote wakes
and stumbles forth into
the day, clutching
his usual, confused
bundle of images
and words from half-
forgotten dreams, now
fugitive places his mind
wandered into uninvited
while  he slept. Arriving
back here, in the physical
world, he breathes back
into the body he was
born with. Rather, no,
not that body, no,
the new one; but, no,
again, not new, rather
the old one, the body
that the passing years
have kindly spared him,
the one to which he now
wakes with astonishment
each day.  Good day,
Coyote, he tells himself;
And, Coyote, good day.

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