The Ballroom is holding the Coyote Dance
for all the spirits running across the highway into the field
where the farmer turns his tractor to the dry pasture, sees coyote,
thinks, should he jump down, run to the shed, grab his gun, thinks again,
watching coyote run oblivious to the barbed wire boundary with abandon
tongue hanging out, running flat out through the air, burners kicking with freedom
dust spots floating above his paws where they touch the ground almost invisible
until reaching the edge of the woods by the rocks above the dusty field he pauses
as the farmer looks down at his watch, tick, tick, ticking something he calls time
something coyote feels in his blood as he dissapears into the pines