Coyote
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The darkest thing
met me in the dark.
It was only a face
and a brace of teeth
that held no words,
though I felt a salty breath
sighing in my direction.
Once,
in an autumn that is long gone,
I was down on my knees
in the cranberry bog
and heard, in that lonely place,
two voices coming down the hill,
and I was thrilled
to be granted this secret,
that the coyotes, walking together
can talk together,
for I thought,
what else could it be?
—Mary Oliver
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Poem: while the coyotes are quiet
Poem: same word in chickasaw for wolf and coyote