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The Albuquerque Coyote Behind the tranquil bustle of a city gone sane, the Albuquerque coyote belts out a native American aboriginal chant; foreswearing that tonight there will be blood and mating and a later tomorrow will see the land rid of those who refuse to reinstate the old ways.
The chant goes in heys, the chant goes in hum-howoos and the owl hears it and knows that tonight, the mice will sleep soundly and dream.
He who listens will know: the coyote's mad and the wolf's on his side and it aint just legend that the wolf can kill.
Tonight while the city sips drinks and blinks in and out of awake and not awake, reclined in large auditorium chairs, four legs will run over more hills, tearing at others whose scents tell fear.
Eight legs will wait while the forms they support join to make singers for the later tomorrow.
The Red Man knows the song sings the song composed the song- brown-palm-in-paw; he's got the old ways in the palms he hides when he sells Kachina dolls beside the freeway to drivers with maps and lenses.
The elements await the chant-choking on the tranquil bustle, the litter and the poisons, the gases and the lights; sad in anger-furious in gloom for the parts they have lost and will not regain;
will not regain when a later tomorrow comes, as the coyote's tooth pops the skin that has displaced it, somewhere between awake and not awake.