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Some days it seems
light hides inside
the bark of a dog.
Today, rust fur wrapping
gray pulls my eyes from the road.
Coyotes, like hitchhikers, lope along the shoulder.
What, out here, lures them from the edge
of woods? One attacks a shadow of a semi
slapping through dried winter
weeds. One leads
through a narrow slash of grass
toward nowhere that is good--
the towers, the airport, the tollbooth.
I long for their heavy fur
right now. Now, right here,
I could stop the car,
throw keys in the gutter and turn
toward the wild. Run clear
down the path where, soon, dark
moles, the length of arms, will tunnel
through earth. I cross the light,
listen for the bark,
and wave into the clouds
with red hands.
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