Smoke curls and swirls
heavenward, through reaching
branches naked white against
a dying day.
The darkest night holds in its cusp
the birth of light, slow and quiet–
an owl drifts tree to tree
and somewhere Coyote sings
a song ancient as the mistletoe,
the holly and the ivy, twining
through wisps of flame and stars.
My voice raises in timid song
weaving melody with Coyote’s harmony;
while spirits stir and listen,
earth settles into sleep.