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!

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