Coyote

Coyote

Eleven-thirty p.m. out here where
the single-family homes lap
at the shadows of the hills,
– those shadows, those  hills –
I slip out to check the sky
against the news. Just then
I see him silently following
J Street’s center line – yes, the center line:
he has the nerve not to bother
slinking. I’m used to seeing him
and his cohort in the canyons,
sometimes even the parks,
but here he is, loping along
down the middle of the street,
past ticking cars, under the glare
of photo cells and plasma.  
“Hey, Coyote!” I call out.
He ignores me, doesn’t break stride,
trots with determination
in the general direction
of the corner where a supermarket
has just closed for the night.