It was a quiet morning.
The sun slide between the blinds, but
it was cool in that perfect space
between early and late.
I listened.
The house was as still as a monastery,
Mute as a mime.
And then I remembered
How In the canyon last night,
while I paced beneath the fog-covered moon,
the coyotes sang
their aching lamentations, and
Gazing at the stars,
deferred to the infinite heavens,
like the fur-bearing
Monks that they are.
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