I know why the coyotes howl.
Last night I heard them
after the sun dipped low,
and left a lingering light
soon to be overpowered by darkness.
I heard them
howling, yowling, yipping,
in turns and together,
sounding and calling to me,
and I wondered why.
Why do you howl coyote?
What do you know of sorrow and loss?
What do you know of misery and waste?
What do you know of me?
And it seemed they paused.
Had I spoken aloud?
Tne silence waited to be filled,
and then I did speak aloud.
I howled.
Howled, not like old Ginsberg,
but a raw throaty note
that ripped open the night.
I howled and felt myself slip,
and the woods beckon
dark and cool and damp.
I stepped barefoot under pines
first slowly, scenting earth's musk,
then faster, heedless, reckless,
and I howled again and more.
Running now, pulse racing,
I shed shirt and shorts
and bounded naked and wild,
pounding up hills and leaping brush,
splashing a stream
to plunge arms out,
slicing under chill water,
a delicious shiver as I slowed and floated.
Emerging wet and dripping,
I howled again
and felt myself grow hard.
Excited, I touched myself
and brought forth the quick climax,
spreading my seed where I stood.
Spent, I turned from my rampage.
Shivering, I stood and listened
to distant howls,
to music mournful and sad.
But I did not voice my own again,
not yet not this night.
