Raven and Coyote meet in a culvert
on a wind-blown night and whisper secrets
about enemies and allies, about genre
and gender, about the way love
cracks open geodes and reveals
sparkling crystals within the mind.
Coyote and Raven have spun out stories
for generations, reuniting at the crux
of war and invention as tricksters do,
their pockets full of counterfeit dollars
and trickster juice in green glass bottles
stoppered with wax. Raven always
marks the melted wax with a careful
claw, and Coyote whistles through
long teeth as he trots to his city,
containers clanking in his satchel—
yes, Coyote has a satchel, a god-purse
stuffed full of odd ends—snuff boxes
and lost keys, broken charms
tangled with bits of dried herbs
that carry the scent of spells
for romance and for rejection.
Raven carries two bottles only,
one clutched in each foot, and shares
sparingly. Unlike Coyote, Raven knows
the fragility of plans, the way life
slips out of true faster than even a god
can manage, so he only takes as much
trickster juice as he can use before
the next meeting, when they will huddle
under an overpass among the lost,
the discarded, and brew up another cauldron
full of magic. Maybe both of them hope
in different ways, one sure of disaster
and ready to cope, one forever winking
at the horizon where some new dream
awaits his arrival. Raven sees far
from his wing-spread vantage
spiraling on an updraft, but Coyote
sees farther, always sure the best
future lies just beyond sight.