Roadkilled coyotes don’t make me nearly as sad as one might expect, given my obvious proclivities. I mean, from time to time I’ll come across one that really gets to me, that makes me rage or weep or wallow in survivor’s guilt.
But not always.
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It came to me on the scent of creosote, cloying and resinous, and wet dust driven before a summer desert storm. A sudden gust out of the glowering east sent the little car skittering across the lane, and as I tightened my hands on the wheel the
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