Ground Beans

The high pitched whine of the grinder disturbs
the early morning like a banging screen door
across a graveyard.

The charm of the pet’s waking routines and
the surprising brightness of the moon
hanging low between

the palms as if waiting to challenge the sun
are jarred by the sounds of attack somewhere
in the valley.

I sit in the huge empty yard waiting for the morning
headlines of encroaching war, listening to the noises
of a coyote pack.

Their crescendo alerts me to the innocent play of the
dog and cat. Though amongst houses, we are close
to the hills.

The crowded earth is shared by nature’s predators
and nation’s war machines, and the political wherewithal
to force issues.

I cannot escape my worldly citizenship as the growing
light defines the perimeter of the property and the lines
of the surrounding houses.

The wild animal sounds have ceased as sun peacefully
reaches the tallest hill and my remaining coffee is as cold
as a dead soldier’s blood.