I am a poor, bleeding animal
whimpering and shot
with pleading eyes and teeth dulled from the years
It is a coyote
hit by hunters with their red-feathered-arrows
It's insides are rotting
from the weeks of laying still
and my ears are nipped, folded by the flies
and yet, I breath
with my heart hammering
as my body slows
and it's whiskers fall out, like rose petals
and it's lips quiver,
It's eyes pool,
but it never does die
Though I, the canidae, am kneeling
there is no shortage of breath
despite the arrows in flank, in chest, in heart
there is still a beat, a breath, a sob
The coyote, in the snow
however does not cry because of injury
or cold, or pain
but cries of the rotting under his lungs
Ive got wrinkles under my fur
and though it's always been grey, it seems deeper now
richer in color as the seconds pass
as flash rememberings cross my mind, of a time unhunted
I am a coyote
and he is old now
and I am shaken, as he is exhausted
and we are one, weathered
and shot, though awake
