Canine

Coyotes leave tracks
in the wet grass between
warehouses and water towers.
They stay far enough out
for the most part nobody
bothers them.

They do not care about
the city lights beyond
remaining out of them.
They chase down
raccoons and rabbits
or anything small enough
to tear apart themselves.

Sometimes they’ll get lucky
and find a dead deer
or runaway dog
in a storm drain
at the edge of the industrial park.
Their most recent prize
a fox slow from lack of sleep
at the edges of the airport.

They sleep in a pile between
nights of scavenging
in the densest trees
or any cover they can find,
and when they wake
they howl together
their sum total maybe
equal to a wolf.

This takes them to the far corner
of the suburbs on a Sunday at dusk
where smoke plumes off
a rack of goat ribs on a rotisserie,
some moron thought
would look cool in his yard.
Anyone who’s shared the company
of canines knows well
that they can smile.