Frankly, an ugly structure of steel
like a square-legged spider
with the purest of heart, 
a tower of one hundred forty bells.
Ocean air rises, falls, breaks like waves
ringing chimes above Bodega Bay.

Nicholas Green, a boy 
at age seven from this small town 
was visiting Italy with his parents. 
Highway robbers killed him. 
In grief, in sorrow, the parents donated 
his organs, new life for seven souls. 
In gratitude, in sorrow from Italy
these bells etched with seven names. 

Bells peal of hope. 
In search of a more merciful world 
we come, sit, listen. 

Children come, do not sit, do not listen.
Children make offerings, a kite, a plastic airplane.
To the branches of a nearby pine 
children tie handmade mobiles 
marked with the names of dead siblings, 
dead friends, shot schoolmates.
Here’s a string of origami hummingbirds,
and here on this branch among fog-damp needles 
toy matchbox cars on fishline
dancing in the breeze. Dancing.

How the woodsmoke of stoves 
on a chilly morning catches 
in cobwebs of fog 
fluffing redwood and fir
to be split by hawks 
or stirred by swarming crows, 
then shattered by blue jays 
who scold, who disapprove of silence, 
who in fact disapprove of him, her, everything.

How she would thrill to the call of thrush 
like folksongs of the forest. 
She would squeeze his hand a little tighter
sharing the delight. No need to say 
but he’s sure somehow she’s near,
she’s watching.

Gruff gray Lester and Navaho Maggie 
have no offspring but treat me like one. 
For Lester I knock down a wall 
and install fat rubber wheels under 
the walnut monster of a double bed
they've shared 60 years—so he can roll 
Maggie to the dining room and kitchen. 
Magpie of Dawn, Lester says. 
She keeps an eye on me. 
Maggie's delighted, room to room 
joking and chattering sometimes in Navaho 
and you get used to the scent of urine.

Rolling is difficult for Lester who limps 
and later more cumbersome with oxygen tanks 
so I'm replacing cupped floor boards 
when Maggie who is watching me work 
points to a pair of coyotes—
one large wary male, one smaller calm female—
outside the window sitting on haunches 
by the broken-down tractor staring right at us, 
not unusual for a ranch house outside town but
then we hear a gurgling sound like water in a drain. 
Lester a big man leaps to Maggie's side. 
Bends his head to her heart while outside 
in broad daylight those coyotes start to howl. 
The two. Aroo-oo. 
It tingles. 
The air itself seems to glow. 
Lester grabs his rifle from the wall and runs
to the window but those coyotes don't flinch.
Aroo-oo. 
He lowers the gun with shaky hand, 
says They're calling her home. 

A couple weeks later after the service 
Lester in his old wedding suit tight and ragged 
hands me a cardboard box containing the wheels 
he's removed and there's a note: 
For the next. Help them go home.
Now I'm no coyote but that box is 
on the top shelf in the garage. 
I'm telling you, son, so you'll know.