It wasn’t indifference.
Nor malice, not even a rule.
It was his habit
As the coyote dropped
Mid-flight, a hole in its
belly.
I watched the blood,
More rhythmic in death
Than I would have thought,
Peppering harvested wheat
With strong spurts.
Sprawled on the earth
It watched me, wild eyes
The herd knew well.
He handed me his shotgun.
Pulled his pistol.
Shot it in the head.
The wood stock was warm.
He grabbed it by the tail,
Tossed it in the truck bed,
Next to the cattle feed.
We drove away, looking
Out the windows. The sun
Reddened the plain.
He said it was just one.
After dusk, there’d be more.
A city boy, I didn’t know
What to say. So I stayed
On the image of a man
Whose hands were scarred.
Worked over in deep furrows
Like the land he plowed.
Who had comforted my wife
When she was just a girl,
Wiping tears with thick fingers,
Holding her when I was gone.