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July 2017, vol 13 no 2

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Marilyn Fleming

Lone Coyote

At first light in Autumn it is common to awaken to gunshots. It’s always hunting season somewhere, either by man or animal. To some it’s survival. To some it’s sport.

a rusty sheen
on the oak leaves
hunters moon
the leg he drags
into the thicket

At dawn in early spring, a doe, her nose in the air, slowly emerges from the thicket, lightly steps to a grassy place, sniffs and sniffs, turns and dissolves back into the brush.

fawn hoofs
are all that remain
are always lurking
are always hungry

At dusk in early spring, a lone coyote with yellow eyes, stands at the edge of the wood, coat matted, mouth slack, long tail hanging down. He slinks away over the ridge.

loping rhythm
of a lone coyote
winter’s ribs
at bedside—dad’s last words
‘there’s nothing left of me’