The room began to smell intensely
of woodsmoke
Stronger than usual
The young coyote
had let herself in the backdoor
leaving it open
as I stretched in bed
being drawn in graphite
The beginning (of February)

A pair of vultures came closer to the roof today
than they have in awhile
Made of grace in the biting cold
having survived the last day
of howling, ceaseless winds
which unsettle me
every time
I don’t come from wind
And it remains dire to my mind
I wonder if that will ever change

The city exhaust was as strong
as the fire earlier
A cement dancefloor
of prehistoric acts, and rhythm…
The man, drawing a bare female view
The coyote, seeking warmth
The gliding black wingspans
The smoke and wind encircling
all of it
in this place of small sacred ritual