the gray brush invites in: a tongue with still fresh mouse bits
i can smell Coyote howling in the distance,
fur and shards of bone and splayed open veins,
pressed to his dry, sticky mouth.
i can feel his heavy, implacable breaths,
having eaten a meal that filled no stomach,
but kept him sharp for months.
a yodeling, ululating song spills
from his arid throat like a dry well
with droplets slowly bleeding through.
his call echoes towns over and is mostly disregarded—
he is mostly disregarded, until he’s at your door,
and he is hungry like a man is.
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