I climbed over
three-strands of barbed wire,
the post to which it attached
supporting me,
while I glanced at the coyote
draped head down
from the top strand – obviously dead
for a long time.
Somebody didn't like him.
He sure didn't hang himself.
I stepped three feet from the fence
to the tread marked hardpan,
some would call a road,
sighted down it, both directions,
scratched my chin, and wondered
what lay at the end of it,
in either direction,
that I didn't want to see again.
Maybe not what, so much as who.
Behind me to the east,
lay miles and miles
of what I also saw to the west.
Drier miles. Hotter miles.
The road going north
disappeared into hazy,
bluish mountains,
while to the south,
it just disappeared,
kind of into the sky,
into the land.,
kind of just into . . .
I took the road North, and
five hundred feet that way
I climbed that barbed fence again,
putting the sun
back in my eyes – West.
Was that the same coyote hanging there?
That's where she headed,
back in June, three months ago,
driving my car. West, I-10,
the note she left said, California.
Couldn't be the same coyote.
This one's human –
dead, a long time.
Guess I should be appalled,
not about the coyote,
about her leaving –
taking my car, but I'm not,
I'm not even mad . . . I'm just –
Wonder who shot the coyote?
There are good deaths, and bad deaths.
The two lizards chewing old blood,
beneath the corpse would say
this was a good death,
just like the sign
hanging from the coyote's belt,
proclaiming: Good Coyote.
If she died . . . would
I think good death,
or bad death,
or would I even think at all –
Maybe just turn around,
head back East,
cross that barbed wire again.
Between those two coyotes
this time . . .
Maybe find another coyote,
hang it upside down
on the next post north,
and another,
and another –
erasing her,
and forgetting about
that damnable old car.
The one that wasn't hers
to take.
Sun, setting in the West,
sun glasses almost not enough,
feet appearing longer and longer
as their shadows
stretch farther and farther East:
Interstate still paralleling me
a mile to the south ;
will need to find
a rabbit soon,
dinner,
a place where I can lay,
watch the stars,
until I fall asleep.
Morning,
coyotes yipping the moon to sleep,
bird calls starting,
night animals seeking shelter
from the day and the day's predators:
me, working the creaks out of my joints,
stretching still sleepy muscles,
deciding – East or West,
Home or Her . . .
Home = Easier
Her = Painful
Hanging by the knees
from the top strand
of a barbed wire fence
and letting gunpowder sear
the flesh beneath my chin
would set my Direction
with considerably less thought,
and a whole lot less pain.
But God frowns
on mercy-killing oneself,
and Karma can be Hell
after re-incarnation;
and I'm already paying
for whatever disrespect I caused
in whichever previous life,
so guess I'll just sit here,
a day or so,
and see if my Zen
is smarter than me.
©wesley james beard ,jr.
