Winter Nocturne

This is still unbroken country: granite that buckled a million eons ago, diorite boulders, manzanita—and coyote, as lean and sharp as death itself.

I think of the ridge in darkness where ponderosa pines creak like beams of sunken ships. If you think about a slab of slate beneath the snow, you are glad to be in bed, three blankets toward sleep. It can be that simple.

A winter night in the hills allows the luxury of plain choices, whether to freeze or not. Out there the bear’s brain sleeps. A coyote cries like a victim.