Word Count: 226
Coyote shadows through the edges, tasting chipmunk in the air. The moon is sleepy-eyed and slivered, yet watches as the old dog hunts.
He is hungry and he is tired of dodging window lights that flood his path with parallelograms of yellow grass that unhide him in his haunts. And the houses block his vision of his territory and all the cats are gone.
It wasn’t very long ago Coyote loped along with shiny eyes and thick coat of yellow-grey and proud. Strong and fierce, backed by brothers he could speak to through the night in howling calls. He had the females panting in their heat. Their adulation countable in pups brought healthy, squeaking into spring. Once, not long ago, he owned the land.
He stops and sniffs the trees that, like him, do not belong here. His woods have shrunk to planted islands. His hunter now includes a monster who follows trails of stone. He knows his blood has thinned to make the dog his brother. He laughs to think that someday he will mate with cats.
Coyote sleeps through the sun. It is the moon he loves. It is forgiveness of his form he seeks, in this new world where he accepts his rights as needs, and howls in unaffected joy at the scent of chipmunk. For a moment, he is king.
