I said I had never seen one.
They speak up there, above the cliff.
We hunt them, said old Ted, spitting on the ground,
Chase deer, eat hens maybe even you, he grinned.
Told me his son had cancer and how he hated gays
You’re a fool to plant apple trees up here, he added.
What if one of your boys is gay, I said,
The truth lurking peevishly between us.
What will you do?
I don’t know, he said,
I don’t know and spat again.
Fresh tracks.
a chase, lengthening stride
A single set of tracks, instead of two
A flash of plumed tail
In the warm steam of the sugar shack, tales get taller as the syrup thickens.
Thoughts of plunging my arms into the sweet, velvet boil,
You ever find your coyote? he shouted grabbing my arm, hard.
I stared across the sugar fog.
I did, I said, I did
