Strange to see a coyote playing
because you don’t think of them
that way any more than you think

of a rat or a possum joyful,
but he was down by the stream
shaking the wet cloth in his mouth,

splashing himself and the river boulders,
and he would have been laughing
if he could. The game was an imitation

of the kill, but that’s the way
the young practice being old,
the water spraying like blood.

Or maybe it’s the other way around,
the old remember childhood
by making our games real.

And the coyote lost in the thoughts
of youth dropped the cloth
and watched it for that

long moment because he had so much
of his life ahead of him he could just let
time pool around his heels.