can pull his gun, the coyote
from
the shadows
leaps
and bites his hand.
the slow
drip
of blood goes bright
against
the new snow.
the sick
beast snarling at his life
gone wrong,
knowing
perhaps
that death is near.
and it is
as the gun is drawn
the trigger pulled.
the winter birds leap
into the air, then
the woods grow quiet,
they're always
quiet
when something is gone.
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