MASSACHUSETTS COYOTE

Ten o’clock. I drag the last of the trash

from the basement, stuff it all into the rolling barrel,
pull everything out to the curb. Walking back
I spot yellow eyes over by the shed. I think it’s a
dog, but instead, it’s a coyote, all alone,

wary but unafraid, staring me down. In the dark
I can just see the smoke-smudged smears
down his flanks.
I turn my back and head inside;

it’s just not that unusual anymore. Thirty years ago,
it would have been unheard of — coyotes
were a Western thing, almost mythic. Twenty years ago
we started to see them, cat-eaters, survivors,

exotic reminders of something we’d forgotten.
Now they’re just part of the fabric,
and the night that goes by without
a single yip is worthy of remark.

The news is on in the living room. Someone’s
dead, someone’s dying,
someone’s angry, afraid,
sick, distressed, starving, poison is everywhere;

it’s all going to hell and there’s nothing
to be done. I sit back in the big chair
and listen hard to the night: hoping the coyote
has something to say. After all,

they came
all this way
from out west
for something.