Coyote

My friend, I could wander

Around out here for years, 
Shaking my head for letting him out, 
Swearing not to forgive myself >
If anything should happen.
herit;">He slipped out in the rain
While I slept. I followed, 
Desperate, with a picture, asking people,
Have you seen this coyote?
He went across the ocean
On a freight ship, sat in the corners
Of doorways on rue Montmartre,
On Aston Quay, and in London, 
Slumped, head between his knees,
Longing for the familiar woods,
Longing for the last red glimpse of sun
On the lake. He says he is a coyote
Who does what he likes. He like
To stay outside. Tonight under the evening
Clouds in their cold, silver raiment
He sits there, alone, 
And I must go out to find him. 

-Tom Yuill, A Public Space: Issue 6