The tang of fresh paint,
new carpet, linoleum,
and spackle: back in the hustle
of West L. A , I smile, sit on
the balcony, breathe in bleary

air, the ding of the FedEx truck, the scent
of disinfectant and bleach, sigh at the missing
damp dirt smell of the woods,
the pines, the murmur
of the oaks and the rise of the breeze,
 
the patter of the two coyote brothers,
born in a den under the woodpile, the shine
of their russet coats, the stench
of the skunk and the whimpers of her pups
in the wash, the startle of rabbits
 
under the shed, the curve
of the doe and her fawn, their slurp
around the saucer of water I fill daily,
the shine of the redtail as it hunts,
the sudden scatter of leaves
 
at its lunge, the tree frog
hidden so snugly in the pot on
the porch, the quail complaining as
they bob and chuck, and finally
fluster up the hill, the sail
 
of the moon, the starblue
beat of the night, as I pull on shoes, jacket,
rush to the outhouse, stop,
inhale, exhale,
breathe to the rhythm of the wild.

© by Ruth Gooley.
Used with the author’s permission.