It starts with the coyotes
down by duckweed pond, yipping
like a pack of feral children
then the trees shift, rustling witches
in their living dresses, twigs rubbing
against branches like broken hip joints.
The geese took flight hours before,
ahead of the storm. I heard them go.
I’m waiting now, window open.
The light on the elder tree shifts
from purple bruise to moss. I pull off
my shirt, shuddering, sweat dripping.
The weathervane spins in raucous screeches
and the cat is under the house, tail wrapped,
scenting the incoming tide when again
something shifts. It’s raining.
The solitude of night’s kingdom takes its tongue
from my mouth, flees in the receding dark.
*This poem was a Finalist in the SWWIM For-the-Fun-of-It Contest.