The Coyote

The Coyote

The coyote lives along the river walk
and only comes out at night
after the gates go up and the police
patrol keeps even bicyclists out.

He's hidden in the low bushes,
scrounging in the mud of spring,
hunting whatever can't elude him:
chipmunks, sleeping geese, feral cats.

You could take a lamp,
climb the gate, walk the rutted path
under the bridge, while the river
current rushes like a train.

The earth will be quiet, except
for the river and your beating heart—
and your feet will sink in
the same mud as his.

Your lamp shakes, a moonbeam
dancing crazily, until eyes the color
of gold spot you, the same time
as you spot him, and you don't run.