The coyote stood at the fork of the plains,
where the moon split silver in twin-bound lanes.
One path led where the wild winds cried,
the other to where the houses lied.
He felt the growl from the great beyond,
deep in his bones, both fierce and fond.
A voice of hunger, a voice of lore,
a call of past, of something more.
To the left, the dark hills rose and fell,
where ghosts of his kind still ran pell-mell.
The hunt was hard, the nights were lean,
but the stars burned bright and the air stayed clean.
To the right, the scent of warmth and waste,
scraps in bins, a life of taste.
The humans' world—so near, so bright,
with city lights that mocked the night.
His paws held still; his ears stayed high,
as if waiting for the wind’s reply.
And in that hush, so vast, so wide,
he heard his own voice deep inside.
Would he chase the call of the open sky?
Would he trade his howl for a lullaby?
The growl from the great beyond still rang—
a choice to make, a song to sang.
So the coyote turned with steady grace,
not to the city, nor to the chase.
But somewhere new, beyond the bend,
where neither wild nor tame need end.