Coyote

Coyote

Steph Rae Moran

From the Mission Viejo Poetry + Art Collaborative (2024)

The desert cottontail startled me first.
Frantic, it darted across the trail—
a brownish-gray blur—and dashed
into tall grass. Had I surprised it with
my loud steps, the crunch of boots

on the pebble-strewn path?
I paused. This small rabbit had left me 
unsteady. I peered into the high grass,
green stems waving in time to 
the song of birds carried on the wind.

And then, from the other side of the trail,
a shrub quivered—a coyote.
With two bounces he landed in the grass
where the cottontail hid.
And I wondered if I should run.

Grass and brush shook as the coyote
lunged. Would it follow me after its hunt 
if I kept to the trail? I stepped back,
my eyes on the edge of the path,
my mouth dry as the dirt under my boots.

With a bound, the coyote emerged—jaw empty—
joining me on the trail. He turned toward 
the meadow, fur shimmering in the sunlight,
and beckoned me to follow him
deeper into the wilderness.