The horse inhales deeply
as it is saddled, and holds in
hope that the rider will not
notice. The coyote gnaws
off her own front leg from
the trap that has snared her,
counts this as a victory. I think
about points of entry without
exit as my uncle flays a shad
still flopping on the gunwale,
this to use as bait for larger
game. He spears a knot
of flesh around a palm-sized hook,
casts, waits. The horse will release
its breath only when the rider
is mounted, toppling him from
his loose throne. The coyote
will wait for the limb to die
before murdering the family cat.
The sturgeon which has taken
the bait deep below is older
than I am, and in its surfacing
has irrevocably tangled our lines.
The shad, half-skinned, flops
into the water and disappears.
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