Coyote Waits

The fear of being hunted

Coyote waits.

Set upon haunches he perches
awaiting his next victim,
unsuspecting the trap
that can only be set within chaos,
the trickster knows his target
and chooses carefully.

I always seem to fall prey,
the sands of time
know the weaknesses I carry
and seek to extort from them
a perverse glory,
unlike any they have known
before or since. It is my fault.
I am not strong enough to
resist the trap.

Faded grey clouds my eyes,
and I rely on my hearing,
my smell, to alert me
to the danger that waits
beyond my field of view.
Running is not an option.
I must make it through
to another day.

No matter the cost.

Giving up leads
only to death.

The hair on the back of my neck alerts.
I have known for some time
that he was coming,
seeking to push me to the edge,
yet not over, as that
would rob him of his meal.

Coyote needs to feed.