Two Coyotes at Dawn
by Teresa Williams
Two Coyotes at Dawn
Blue light from the edges illuminate the street
like an aura,
like phosphorescent water, magician
of its spreading hue, of its
rise
and soft dissolve.
A moment later and another still
it touches the trees.
Its slow moving stillness
surrounds dense shapes,
wall, sidewalk, shrub,
crack;
a return
to its immanence.
Up ahead,
a flash
amber heat, wild fur. Then another,
less an apparition,
than the the first. For a moment,
its green ember eyes burn. Time
falls open,
a desert floor climbs up, inverts itself
in the oasis of sky.
Thunder.
Wisp of smoke.
Standing in the street. They're gone.
House, porch, maple tree.
Electric lights.
Door.
A poet, translator, and psychotherapist, Teresa Williams loves the way inner and outer landscapes come together with the bridge of beautiful language. Her poetry has been featured in: Psychological Perspectives Journal, Buddhist Poetry Review, Vine Leaves Literary Journal, and A Hundred Gourds. She has a chapbook of translated poems, Tailor Shop: Threads by the Uruguayan poet, Laura Cesarco Eglin, Finishing Line Press.
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