Like ants and weeds, coyotes don’t seem to know
Their place. They mock attempts to break their will.
Despite fences, guns and poisoned bait, they still
Do well in nooks and crannies that scarcely show.
Though drain canals and alleyways cannot equal
The pulsing prairie world that they’ve replaced,
Their little suffices to support this tribe displaced
Who stand ready for their bit part in the sequel.
Perhaps they wonder, given the growing throng,
Why bipeds seem so bound in ways perverse
To take life’s challenges and make them worse
Instead of learning to play nice and get along.
If plants and insects finally win survival’s race,
I’ll put my bet on coyotes for strong third place.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.