I pine sometimes for the wild and mournful melody
Keening through the mist.

We reminisced about loons on our foggy lake
In southern Nova Scotia

Before adjourning to the hot porch
To await the strawberry
Moon rise. Behind

The Sonoran cityglow this night in June,
Beyond a leafy, netted

Silhouette of mesquites, a rim of a sphere
Appeared, rosé and rounding

Above the secant, tangent, then abandoned
Horizon.

Chatter and tobacco smoke drifted
From the neighbor’s porch.

Irrigation nozzles gurgled, spat, and
Hissed as rosé tipped

To peach, then sobered into a fat champagne
Moon.

When will the mad and so far silent coyotes
Sing?