There’s a coyote on the airstrip
at Braeburn today,
trotting north on the cleared runway
with his nose in the air
and his tail like a windsock.
A bit of a fraud, that,
for there is no wind save
that of his making
and he will have to rev
his engine mightily to get airborne
on this quiet day.
I wonder where he got that
pleased look on his muzzle?
How wily was he today?
He shows no fear
as if he is well known in
the neighbourhood,
a tolerated local with whom
no one has any issues.
Were there scraps at the lodge,
some rooting in the midden?
What brought him out of the woods
to which he now returns
so carelessly?
We all have our reasons to travel,
and mine call me southward
before I can do more than
raise the questions.
Today, I am the road runner.
mBeep! Mbeep!