From an uncertain darkness
frightened coyotes whine, pace
in acres of sage and buckbrush
saved from the molten sea
of a running wildfire.

Fearful voices howl, call to young.
A deep-throated cur cries,
(we know not in pain or grief)
cries into night that would be night
but for a glow of red-orange fire

set against curtains hung in smoke.
Wild hunters of the now charred land,
where will you run come daylight?
The den is bare, the trails without cover,
the wind ash-bearing and empty of scent.