Animus

 

In winter, when coyotes fluff up, we

mistake them for wolves. They leave scarlet

splattered tracks, marrow and gut, that

remind me of our tiny mouths

and far-ranging weapons.

 

True hunters maneuver with claws and speed,

strength and teeth, and a final dash of surprise.

No resentment is born of the slaughter.

 

I wonder if coyotes feel envy towards their more

fearsome cousins, famous enough to be trophies.

Neither mistake us for anything but

what we are: vertical draped intruders.

 

What must they think when they see our prowess and power

applied?  People falling dead as if by magic, bodies

lying in multitudes,

all the meat left on them.