The Flight of Birds, the Scat of Coyotes

I believe the flight of birds can tell us nothing about the future and everything about the present.
I believe in the coyote who scats in my front yard, though I haven’t seen it.
That any boot may hide a scorpion whose tail stings with broken dreams.
I believe in black cliffs overlooking a great river and searching for the falls that used to be there and are now drowned by dams.
I believe in striated red sandstone carved by water into the shapes of flesh.
I believe you cannot know a land without knowing its waters.
I believe the wind calls out the names of everyone you have lost, but only when you cannot hear them.
I believe in roots more than in leaves.
In mushrooms more than in flowers.
In paths more than in roads.
I believe the sea will devour my bones.
That sand can be cold enough to burn.
I believe crows know why they gather for funerals, but they will never tell us.
I believe bees get stoned on lavender.
I believe in fire.
I believe in the anarchy of my own soul.

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