Coyote Waits

“Coyote told me how to find the path.”
A spiteful sun singes his skin.
“That bush looks like a jack rabbit.”
The high desert oozes its heated hostility.
“I should have passed the station by now.”
A rock stained with bird-shit cries out:
“Turn back!”
He has circled back upon his-self.
“Is that the sound of moving water?”
He turns to face that burning sun.
“Coyote told me how to find the path.”
He cocks his gun as Coyote waits.