The coyote got a song, they do. Starts a little like a dog but from there out
it's all their own. They loose their throats somewhere in the middle, then shake it
at the top, bending the night with harmonies. They chase
through washes and through rain-wet streets, daring a driver with that next set of eyes to run them down or just plain stop.
Their casualties are more'n a few, but I personally ain't never seen a pack stopped quiet and sullen-like just padding around their dead. I think they figure there's more where that came from, both a comin' and a goin', and a procession or formal burial would be silly. Seems like the kind of word they'd be apt to use is "silly," and hell, they've got plenty of hiding to do - and been doing it so long, it's not anymore a job to 'em, like a slow vice turned bad and then just necessary.
In the morning, early, after a night rain they'll be with some of their own kind down roads where reflections in storm drains and gasoline streaked pools of water are ignored. An old boy doing his morning walk can come upon one real easy like, and fact is never once would a fella get to feeling spooked, like the coyote's hunting you yourself. After your food or time they ain't.
Now rabbits, rabbits got something powerful to fear from the coyote. They'll tear down a riverbed and up a rock-crossed slope to begin the kill, and on the way more will join and set their jaws to work the long echoed yips and chattered bawl hoisted high upon masts of the becoming moon until it's the rabbit itself bleating out a panicked sound far beneath that same moon.
The drift of a blood-let silence and the first ride up of them teeth, half sharp and uneven from hard living and the chewin' steady of rocks, garbage, and then again their song, as if trying to wake the very dead who still feed them. A celebration of their noise is kind of hacked-bone and furwishin' for something to drink I figure. Or hoping some dumb ol' dog don't throw out its lungs signaling sure porch lights and Henry rifles which repeat into the first morning star.
Coyote got no real truck with a dog less'n it bounds out ignorant, unattended and broke free of its leather, with fangs kept in their place of stayin'.
Now a cat, a cat'll tree up sure, just causin' the others to listen and come. Just to see that tail up and spine rolled back, spittin' an' a-hissin', the peculiar arrogance of such a small creature, but the coyotes lose interest soon enough as another night admits defeat, and the sun will come sure with its dusty afflictions and the power of its order, steel, glass and manacles. And me, I'll watch 'em as they slip through the motion detectors and concertina wire, gone to a desert that has no further room for them.
Their casualties are more'n a few, but I personally ain't never seen a pack stopped quiet and sullen-like just padding around their dead. I think they figure there's more where that came from, both a comin' and a goin', and a procession or formal burial would be silly. Seems like the kind of word they'd be apt to use is "silly," and hell, they've got plenty of hiding to do - and been doing it so long, it's not anymore a job to 'em, like a slow vice turned bad and then just necessary.
In the morning, early, after a night rain they'll be with some of their own kind down roads where reflections in storm drains and gasoline streaked pools of water are ignored. An old boy doing his morning walk can come upon one real easy like, and fact is never once would a fella get to feeling spooked, like the coyote's hunting you yourself. After your food or time they ain't.
Now rabbits, rabbits got something powerful to fear from the coyote. They'll tear down a riverbed and up a rock-crossed slope to begin the kill, and on the way more will join and set their jaws to work the long echoed yips and chattered bawl hoisted high upon masts of the becoming moon until it's the rabbit itself bleating out a panicked sound far beneath that same moon.
The drift of a blood-let silence and the first ride up of them teeth, half sharp and uneven from hard living and the chewin' steady of rocks, garbage, and then again their song, as if trying to wake the very dead who still feed them. A celebration of their noise is kind of hacked-bone and furwishin' for something to drink I figure. Or hoping some dumb ol' dog don't throw out its lungs signaling sure porch lights and Henry rifles which repeat into the first morning star.
Coyote got no real truck with a dog less'n it bounds out ignorant, unattended and broke free of its leather, with fangs kept in their place of stayin'.
Now a cat, a cat'll tree up sure, just causin' the others to listen and come. Just to see that tail up and spine rolled back, spittin' an' a-hissin', the peculiar arrogance of such a small creature, but the coyotes lose interest soon enough as another night admits defeat, and the sun will come sure with its dusty afflictions and the power of its order, steel, glass and manacles. And me, I'll watch 'em as they slip through the motion detectors and concertina wire, gone to a desert that has no further room for them.
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