At the edge of a desert a coyote sits
watching the shadow black upon the sand,
the shadow of a bird that cannot be.
The ignorant beast unveils his fangs
and trots in sly pursuit.
Beneath scrub cedar he waits
and sees flat darkness hover by.
He leaps. The gray dust rises
dry and choking.
Silence seeps between triumphant gasps.
The shadow is gone. The coyote is content.