7 October 2011

I love the sound of coyotes in the early morning dark. They are lean, frantic, primordial. Survival machines from hell. In their teeth, the bone splinters from charred demon carcasses. It's impossible to tell exactly where they are. American jackals. They won't bother waiting for nightfall to creep in and steal your babies. The gnashing of teeth mixed with laughter at the slow, feeble humans. There is a hardness in the eye, in the crooked posture, the paw being dragged like a dead soldier who had served heroically and can't be left behind even though it slows the unit down and makes them vulnerable. I wonder what they are saying. Maybe a simple mantra of existence, "We are mangy and hungry and clawing our way towards life." Or their message may be more direct: "We are here. We are coming."