Coyote-footed night swirls in
on swift dry clicks of oak leaves
dancing for the mustard sunset.
There's no telling what
I'm prepared to do with the vacant field,
fenced against lopers and trotters,
now navigated best by bats.
White tails will graze long after dawn tomorrow,
and rust-banded woolly bear caterpillars
flow into winter on sap's slowing tide.
I'll tell you the devices
of the spell I've etched in creek water,
if you promise to panic,
burn me at the stake, noon.