Coyotes wake when we lie down upon the verge of sleep enclosed,intent upon pursuits that take them through the night, always nearby,the clamour of their sudden laughter rising up beside us. Sleepdoes not begin, it enters our bodies unperceived, and thenit is all that we are, a world sleeping in us, desiring nothingbut the sleep we are, the world's only residue withinour flesh the echo of the coyotes and their waking joy where theyare in their midnights, stars rolling through them, stars ablaze upon
their tongues. No other stars rise up inside our nights: we are the skywithin a sun, yet sky that has no sphere of final stars where inour sleep we might conclude, our prayers hushed against the air, their wordsinvisible around our bodies. Coyotes lope beneath the skyat night, its silence on their backs, the quickened folly of their callingopening the sky, and where it opens we are open, fleshforgotten with our prayers, the air around the stars flowing throughthe sleep we are, so close we are their intimates, breathing fire.
