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How long have you been here?<br>
It has no counting:<br>
Old like coyote playing in the dirt,<br>
From coyote learning to remain and to belong.<br>
Fully grown when finally come to birth and its welcoming of mother's milk.<br>
That wet white web, casting back,<br>
From young mother to old mother,<br> 
Back into the birthing of the world.<br>
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These girls, who weave upon the abb between the sticks,<br>
Scream each new child into the world;<br>
Screaming with the brown gold eagles<br>
They tear each frightened spirit from the womb.<br>
Children no sooner cleaned of blood and swaddled than<br>
They become the dye that stains this yarn within the moving shuttle.<br>
But children fear the weaving and their bodies dream<br>
At nightfall of a dark fall from the web.<br>
When grown, men walk about upon the woof;<br>
They shake their sticks;<br>
Deny the breast they burrowed in.<br>
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But open eyes will see that coyote keeps his wife;<br>
She is the treasure he sustains.<br>
And when she cannot hunt, he brings the carcase sweet with entrails.<br>
Coyote rests beneath the night and listens to his good wife weaving.<br>
Within the earth, upon crossed sticks, each living<br>
God's-eye of a pup is spun.<br>
After the welcoming of mother's milk, days lose their counting<br>
And a grain of coyote's wisdom sticks like a needle in the eye.<br>
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For coyote wisdom is the keeping sweetness--<br>
Freeing him to walk the desert reaches<br>
Between the milky windings of the web.<br>
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