coyote

Very early,
very bright.

Wind cuts
across flat surface,
shards of cold,
broken over desert heat.

With the breeze
comes the dirt,
kicked up from beneath,
caught in the belly
of those whispering devils,
dust storms
wandering slowly,
aimlessly,
above agave.

Fearlessly,
unflinchingly,
the coyote-
left ear bloodied,
right hind leg limping-
steps into the morning torrent,
breathes into the filthy air,
the ailing breath
of his home,
his Sonora.

He has come a long way,
across miles of desert,
barbed wire
stacked seemingly miles high,
and not a drink of water in sight.

The coyote
has suffered-
behind him,
his pack has thinned
over the past several days.

With so few,
the prize
will be feeble-
maybe only enough
for safe passage
back to the point of departure.

But safety
is much to ask for.

The coyote
still tastes the blood
of his prey
on his lips
as well as his own.

The border guard
watches.

His journey
is nearly at an end,
but he is still hungry.