Coyote climbed up the cliff of an evening,
hid behind a shadow of the moon,
stretched arms long,
surprised a star.
He snatched it,
pulled it from its place,
leapt back to earth, howling.
It seared
his hands, stung
his palms,
singed his fur.
He dropped it —
and the star fled home.
Coyote soaked his paws
in cold water; for weeks
his fingers curled
in pain.
Fire-stealer, why
yearn for things
not meant
to belong
to you?
Grandfather Crow
would say:
know
your
limits.
Tonight, Coyote climbs the cliff
of the evening
(his hands itch for blisters.)
____________
I write about Coyote a lot.
I’m probably going to keep doing that.
My book, “Diary of a Dark Lord”, is now on Audible.
Our Villainpunk event, Evil Expo, is this January.
