It is morning in the Santa Monica mountains As I wind through the high grasses Painted golden by the sunrise In my nose is the tang of mustard and fennel Wilded from their farms a hundred years ago Their yellow blooms nestled In the native purple of hummingbird sage and lupine It is quiet, the buzz of the highway muted The rooftops hidden by the scrubby chaparral Like I have stepped from the bustle of Los Angeles Back in time to the villages of the Tongva My footsteps soft in the sandy soil I round a bend and she is there, willowy, silent We both freeze, eying each other warily Her with bright eyes and ears pointed She is thin, the countour of her abdomen visible over her long legs I take in her coppery coat, the hair tipped in black Her bottle-brush tail high, her glossy nose flared The birds have stilled their chatter Perhaps they too wait with bated breath to see the predators Face to face, wondering what will transpire I do not move; She seems uninterested in confrontation The very air stills I turn; she slinks into the undergrowth The birds resume their gregarious conversations Flitting round the tops of tall yucca and riotously white-lilac ceanothus I resume my walk, knowing I am on her land The wind in the branches whispers to me of coyotes The trickster hero who has padded this land Since long before any human feet And who has outwitted us all To thrive in the dense thickets, ever shrinking That cluster within human habitations In a world that has been tamed she is still wild Still proud Still free