I crossed the desert with five hundred coyotes

they were my army, they cleared the way for me

sinking their teeth into flesh and necks

and into the knots of barbed wire.

Oh.

I crossed the desert with one hundred coyotes

they ranged before me, brought me fresh rabbits

they clothed me in thistle and sang me their stories

they were my army, no

they were my family.

Oh.

I crossed the desert with less and less coyotes

we lost most our number beneath the tires of semi trucks

Half that remained were made completely tame

by coffee and bacon and crackers in packages.

Oh.

Dumpsters and cul-de-sacs.

Suburbs and tv sets.

I crossed the desert with one lonely coyote

haggard and hungry, along the shadows of highways

his daughter was stranded in the grassy median

we lost her

sad to say we lost her.

I crossed the desert with one lonely coyote

his eyes flashed angry yellow from the tops of the creosote

smashing through windshields

out into traffic

over the hills and gone

We met at the ocean, one lonely coyote

we shared a cigarette, sat there in silence

pondered the fallen till we forgot about everything

and wondered where to go from here.

Oh.