I.

Light comes first, then breath, as coyote

breathes deep, filling up lungs 

with acrid air that he then feeds to

people. When the dream dropped out of him, 

Coyote planted people in the hard earth that he had created 

because light always comes first

then air, breath, lungs, people: eyes wide and

eyelashes long like spider legs, staring hard at the sky like they’ve just witnessed a crime.

Coyote creates the ocean last of all, and as all great ideas come,

by accident. One day, he discovers water as he is digging in his garden, 

and upon digging further, he burrows himself so deep in the wet sand,

sensuous in its soft cradle, that he creates the ocean.

He briefly drowns himself in his own creation.

He swallows salt deep in his lungs.

It burns like renewal; it ignites like rebirth.

II.

When Coyote comes up for air, landing with a thump on the earth, 

he trips up a hill on his little stonelike feet,

and he creates ocean from earth. Before his eyes it grows as he

throws the biggest animal on the land and calls it whale.

He throws a log and calls it seal then he throws a snake 

and calls it eel. Of all the things he has done, this is his greatest accomplishment;

this something from nothing. When he is done, he climbs to the top of a hill 

with muddied feet, and looks from his perch atop the land.

He becomes fat with knowledge and eventually grows bored, looking for excitement. 

He doesn’t have to travel far to find what he was looking for. He depletes the ocean, 

pushing his creations gasping back on the land from which they come. 

Sucking back what he wants and leaving the rest to rot

until he allows the ocean to consume all that he has created, 

gulping it down in one swift swallow. This is the truth and the beauty of the ocean. 

It consumes, burning in its salty seafoam taste, until all else is gone. 

To read this and other poems by the writer, please read Glassworks Fall 2023 Issue #27 here.