Coyote stalking the hills in the chill and snow and cold and good ol’ Western spirit, one foot lifted as it waits to pounce. Rabbit, weasel, field mouse. It matters not. It will be dead soon.
Buffalo graze to the East beneath a wooden cut out in their likeness. I wonder if they worship it as their god. Probably not.
Coyote carcass. jackrabbit carcass. Coyote carcass. Antelope carcass.
During snowstorms the wildlife ranges wide. They stand by the roads as if watching and waiting for us to slip up. To skid. To crash. Go down, down, down into the dirt and become part of the soil. Back to nature. Those patronizing fucks. Field birds dart towards the sky. Families of buffalo and antelope watch on like tourists. Ice coats the road to Carr in April and I skid and slide and curse and hope I’ll live, knowing I will.
Different day. The snow blows across the interstate. Drifting snow they call it out here. Out West. Grandaddy of them all. Water sticks to the grass, then freezes and makes the plains look as if they’re made of snow instead of just covered in frost.
Winds blow East. Truck carcass. Car carcass. Truck carcass.
Road slick in spots. Advise turn off cruise control.