I don’t know what you call it
when the lion sounds wounded and calls
the smaller animals
with their healthy coats and paws,
and they go, as if death knows their language
and can change it to another.
The wolf, too, knows the words of elk and moose
and how to call them forward
and with the coyote the lovely vole arises
with soft fur from underground.
This, this is how some hear their god
and wander off toward it or him
and then are taken in
while the god walks on mighty and full,
passing others, generous at last.