The Desert's Traveling Musicians

From the Desk of J. Bockman

The coyotes are outside my window most
before-sun mornings, gathering
for the Blues. I want
to shepherd them inside, teach them
how it feels to be warm and loved; to eat
civilized kibble, not my cats. But then,
I want my cats to have their ancient right
to climb trees and stalk
the birds we hear humming in our trees.

I am just a city-raised girl with a liking
for camping. Didn't think we'd be
leaving the city when we moved
the mountain to our window.
The address still says Tucson, after all.
I didn't know I'd be explaining
to my old-man cat he's not
mature enough to take care
of himself. I'd worry about him
outside, so he must stay in, guard
the house from six-legged
intruders, never mind those busy-body
neighbor cats, friend.
The coyotes will deal with them.

I wake up predawn to
this desert serenade. To
old-man cat purring,
purring and tail twitching,
crouched close. My lover, less
citified than I, more
rational than I, listens
to the coyote's moonlit song and
dance routine and says, "That's why you can't
go outside anymore, cat."
Sleepy and content, he tightens
his arms around me, and leaves me
awake. Contemplating.
Coyotes just need better manners.

My dog, nonplussed, leans his head against my hand.
A warm brow, a cold nose, a contented sigh.
The desert's traveling musicians are here,
he seems to say, pet me while I listen.
And so I listen to them sing, the serenaders, and know
why coyotes decline my ideas of civilization, manners, and love
the way I offer it - shut behind walls away
from the moon, their favorite audience.
They don't care that the city has different rules
about vagrants. The night is free,
they sing, but if I want to tip them,
they'll gladly take a cat.

I decline, but by now
the coyotes have gone
their mournful way.

(c) 2005 Jessica Bockman