Mother pops up in the doorway: “Are you hungry yet?”
“But Mom, we just ate breakfast!” I say, shelving the last clean plate.
“I’m hungry!” she whines in the voice of the little match girl.
Nothing seems to matter beyond this loopy home movie,
So it’s time to find the River of Impermanence, time

To take the truck to places we have known and lived:
The wide Palouse of rolling hills ploughed for winter wheat.
She tells me, “Look at those puffy white clouds coming up ahead!”
On Blaine Ridge I stop to photograph the panoramic field.
“Be sure to get those dry weeds there by the road!”

Then we descend the sharp curves of Coyote Gulch to the river,
Pull over for rest stop at Slaterville, settlement long gone
Like the dream of easy gold. Mother looks cold in October,
So I drape her old coat over her shoulders, making her seem small,
Framed against the Clearwater canyon’s red sumac and Big Eddy.

Along a quiet stretch, reflecting sky and shadowy pines,
I climb atop a boulder and, like her, become a part of things.
We laugh, finding Clearwater after Clearwater in our dreams,
And as we encounter the outskirts of Orofino, she exclaims,
“I never really liked this town, but now I’ve forgotten why!”

River-finders come to the edge of the stream but do not cross.
They know the river is empty, water and current long gone,
Like memory itself, leaving only the moment eternally hovering,
Ghostly thoughts they cannot let go. “Honey,”
Says mother, “Can we go home now? I’m hungry!”

The first coyote showed up in the summer of ’61,
Trotting slowly ahead of the pickup east of Bovill,
Tongue out, fur dangling in loose hanks from his body
“On account of the mange,” said Art the fire boss,
Downshifting to keep pace until coyote disappeared.

Highway Ninety-five between Lewiston and Genesee,
A young coyote showed up casually trotting
Over a ploughed field at the end of summer,
Completely ignoring the humans in their cars
Because this country had always been his and not theirs.

Late at night the city suburb of Forest Heights,
Five coyotes cavorted under a streetlamp
On manufactured lawn that had replaced the woods,
Dashing off at our approach toward dark vine maple hills
Because this country had always been theirs and not ours.

Late at night George and Macky’s place on Blaine Road,
We hear coyotes yipping and howling in unison,
As down on distant farms dogs take up the ancient call
And don’t stop till well after coyotes have stopped,
And then coyotes start up again, leading the way into darkness.

Late September George and Macky’s place we watch
A big coyote limping across a harvested field,
Stopping now and then to sniff the wind;
“Likely kicked by one of those white-tailed does,”
Says George, as big coyote disappears among the far pines.