In the wound of knowing
a coyote with a favored front paw tripling the
scurry in his hunt to merely get through this night.
Rabbit will not be his to chase down, nor possum,
nor raccoon, nor ungated dog, wary feral cat. For
these brief seconds I see him, it does not look good.
Rattler bite, some rival or tribal canine exception,
who can say. A misjudged jump over a creekbank,
a cancerous pox embedded deep in his given gait.
Orchards settle themselves into the contour of
mist-blurred hills, hunker against any possibility
of the sky bearing fruit of unblossomed rain.
Coyote lopes along until my turn loses him to
the night. The world cannot concern itself with
so small a thing for there are tragedies enough.
Days go by go nights go by go I into the dig and
drag of a running life that will not cross his hobbled
path again, but in the wound of knowing he is there.
November 5, 2014