Vertical trunks of nightstand in snow all around the mound where we saw the fox go.
It is two years past the Thanksgiving when my mother laid on a hospital bed, both thin as staves.
We had a party the night before wine and orchids- singing and mourning lifting the bare room's coma.
She used to tell me, "I want to give you the moon" calling from her desperate hill, reaching for something with her blind eyes that cannot be seen.
Now, in the high desert the full moon rises. Listen. Is that a coyote in the arroyo- Yelps. Yips. Howls of longing or celebration erupting from his mouth?