poetry, prose & story
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"I think when you look back at yourself as a young coyote, it’s really hard not to say, I was so scruffy. I made so many mistakes. I was not strong enough and my bite was weak. This judgement is held secretly, privately, especially in today’s robust trauma-porn wilds, where everyone has such a neatly laid story of depravity stacked up into victory. As a coyote, you don’t want to be a part of that narrative, even though it’s true. You don’t want to brand your identity as the pup in the woods alone, even though solitude is your thing.
This is partially genetics. Coyotes are unique in canine evolution that they roll alone or in packs. Really, either one will do. Sure, some of us have pre-dispositions. Quick to snarl, all of us screaming howlers. We’ll distract you by remarking on your lesser attributes, then sneak around with your egg in our mouths. But we know our people, our kin, the ones that we belong to. We are kind to them, loyal, but don’t let that make you think we are dog-like. We’ll eat a puppy given the chance." Coyote Story, Atticus Review, 2020 |