by John Vance Cheney

John Vance Cheney

A dim lithe shape moves over the mesa,

Roves with the night wind up and down;

The light-foot ghost, the wild dog of the shadow,

Howls on the level beyond the town.

Cry, cry, Coyote!

No fellow has he, with leg or wing,

No mate has that spectre, in fur or feather;

In the sage bush is whelped a fuzzy thing,

And mischief itself helps lick him together.

Up, cub Coyote!

The winds come blowing over and over,

The great white moon is looking down;

In the throat of the dog is devil's laughter.

Is he baying the moon or baying the town?

Howl, howl, Coyote!

The shadow-dog on the windy mesa,

He sits, and he laughs in his devil's way.

Look to the roost and lock up the lambkin;

A deal may happen 'twixt now and the day.

Ha, ha, Coyote!

Last updated January 14, 2019