Under a glaring moon
by a fire that leapt in bursts
like moves from a long forgotten dance,
we sat watching the trees sway
in their own memories, as the leaves
spun and flipped before making one
last arch toward that glass lake,
the need to send out a ripple, a howl,
like the coyotes on some far bank,
their playground yelping like kids,
an echo sent down this canyon,
where closed caverns still hold
some music of their own.