Coyote

The sun, convinced of its own futility, has sunk itself down into a half-remembered smudge of light leaking palely over the horizon, the only delineation of desert and sky. Stars sparkle, unchastened by their jealous sister, grinning in the darkness that has stretched its arms to embrace the desolate landscape. They inspire me to lengthen my grasp, yet taunt me with their unreachability, ellusive, illusory. I stretch up on my toes, anyways, a hand thrown up, reaching for their pale placidity, coveting it. The stone beneath me is still hot, radiating the warmth of the now-banished sun. I lay basking in it, clinging to it, apprehensive of the malevolant cold creeping its way towards me. The wind hisses its frozen breath across the sand, driving it along the desert floor, slithering into my clothes, caressing my skin. The stars gaze down, faintly amused, but mostly apathetic. I blink, and the leering yellow moon winks back at me as it peeks around the corner of the world. The silvered moon beams carry the far off yip of a coyote to my straining ears, and I answer, full-throated, grinning slyly in anticipation.
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