Crepuscular, adj., the behavior of animals most active at twilight

For Ash

BY NEAL ALLEN SHIPLEY

It’s cold but the sky is clear, cleaved:
bright pink sits on blue and there are no clouds, but a stripe
of white would be poetic. This administration will ban the sky
if they can, executives ordering it to stop changing color – trying
to administer a world where there is only day and night.

Imagine, refusing to believe in twilight while the sun seeps
into the gums of the horizon – denying nightfall on a summer evening
when you savor sunset, still warm and purple on your tongue.
Hunting is restricted between sunset and dusk when these animals
are most active – to feed, to court – at the height of their power:

*

Odocoileus hemionus, mule deer
feed selectively at dusk, choosing the parts of sagebrush
that are most nutritious. Site-faithful, they return only to the safest,
most bountiful grounds, pawing the soft loam of your back yard
so close we could hand-feed them if we weren’t so loud.

You call me but you’re worried about other things – the dog
I pretend to hate is sick and it’s probably just normal shit, but still.
I forget to tell you that I know twilight is real, that it’s the most
beautiful time of day, the mountains’ silhouette like thick walls of a bowl
thrown up by practiced hands to protect us in this conservative city.

*

Vulpes vulpes pick-pocket their predators
in the gloaming, stealing yesterday’s prime rib for tomorrow’s supper.
The red fox knows to keep away from traffic – has learned to scent
the carbon steel of their hunter’s rifle on the wind, stow their stolen
goods deep beneath the snow where it will keep until leaner times.

This administration has convinced themselves there is only high
noon, masculine sun scorching the earth shadowless, baking
them where they stand without reprieve – the delicate frills of dawn
too dangerous for them, nighttime dragging her slow fingers down
their chests, the cold dew of Spring fresh in the corners of their mouths.

*

Canis latrans call to their young with soft woofs
when the sun sinks almost completely, a nightlight deep
within the mountains – small howls that make you lower your joint.
I tell you about the time a coyote invaded my cul de sac growing up,
our neighbors shepherding their dogs inside to avoid a slaughter.

You tell me the coyote is a mean bitch, but you’re meaner.
If they’re a threat, we’ll bring the girls inside and I’ll fight
this administration tooth and claw with you until it’s just
another neighborhood dog, one we’ve seen before, docile;
we stay outside with the joint, the soft glow of dusk around us.

Neal Allen Shipley (he/him) is a behavior analyst living in Colorado with a modest collection of pets and an unhinged collection of plants. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and appears in Creation Magazine, The Talon Review, and SCAB Magazine, among others. Despite the horrors, he loves a fancy hot dog. You can find him on Instagram @nealio9