The end of the world
is not what’s wrong with me.
Old age, illness, and death
are not wrong. They just are.
A stone says, Wake up,
exactly this is all there is!
Everything says it—
a sick coyote crossing the field,
poisoned, injured, rabid, old,
the rest of the pack anxious,
yipping and howling back and forth
across the valley as dusk comes on.
What’s wrong with me is that
I find their music beautiful.
I dwell on it long after it stops
and in the silence afterward
I write down its words.