Thin Edge

This evening I flushed a local coyote
from the edge of our woods. His ill temper
beat at the air, the old mangy throat
stretched high in a rasp, a language remembered
from his days with the pack, each step a mark
of his age, the teeth yellowed and thinned,
a diminished hunter roaming the dark.
Alone, he circles the trimmed
edge of sumac and birch in the yard.
He watches the rush of owl sweep the sky,
his patience a rock, his muzzle clamped hard.
A seasoned old cur, he stalks each hint of dry
breath, memory raised sharp, jaw muscle tight,
each shadow a kill running the night.