To be Knocked in the Head by a Live Oak Branch

To be knocked in the head by a live oak 
branch— 

to be laid flat on the earth and made to look up
at the clouds spaced out, decked with light and feathers, 

while the world spins off its what was once its center; 

to have the fringes of one’s framework 
encroached by the creepings of the red cedar; 

to have the cracks in the limestone crust 
beneath you nestle into the crevices of your rib cage 

—is to be made to feel the standing of others 
over and against and into one’s 
life. 

Coyote, Our Neighbor, Sings

You do not have to travel far, only
until the sidewalks end 
and ranches replace strip malls and signs of 
"Danger 1080" and "Strychnine"
appear alongside the highway. Look 
there beneath the barbed 
wire fence for the delicate 
parting of grasses. Get on your 
knees and trace out the path of 
winding iron and jagged 
spikes. Here you will find 
coyote: tufts of tangled 
fur left behind as they 
crossed into new 
and unforgiving pastures.

If you decide to go farther
into the remote Chihuahuan desert among 
the Lechuguilla and Creosote and Yucca and 
sleep there atop the limestone earth beneath 
the sky glazed with stars you may awake 
to the sound of yipping and of
hurried footsteps circling
round and round your tent in ever 
tightening laps. Though you may then 
reach out your head to try to 
catch a glimpse of coyote, they 
will have already scattered 
soundlessly into the night.

And when you return home and find
yourself sitting on the porch
bathing in the last warm 
glimmers of the setting 
Texas sun, wait
and listen for 
the steady crescendo, now 
familiar to you, of short 
sharp howls. This 
is the song of 
your neighbor.