A Crow and A Coyote...

When I ask what story lies beneath the shredded feeling in my gut of knowing something but being told by the world around me that I’m wrong...I see a crow and coyote, which makes no sense, but there they are.  

I don’t know the story but Coyote does.  Coyote knows and is eyeballing me sideways, grinning, tongue lolling, so amused by my discomfort, so amused by the discord, this mismatched inner and outer.  

I can’t tell if Crow knows the story or not.  Crow isn’t interested in Coyote’s games, has seen and heard them all.  This gives me an idea.

“So an old dog really can’t learn new tricks?” I ask.

This annoys Coyote. He doesn’t like being called a dog.  

“There are no new deceptions,” he harrumphs.  “You humans just never learn.”

I have to admit he’s right.  I never learn. He just told me the secret to his greatest trick of all, and I still won’t learn.  

“You’d get so bored if we became extinct,” I try to defend myself, my humanity. “No one to laugh at.”

“Meh,” he says.  “I’d go tease the stars.”

Crow finally takes an interest.

“Same difference,” she rasps.

Coyote lifts his lip, showing yellow teeth.  

Unperturbed, Crow cleans her feathers. 

“How is it the same?” I ask.

“The stars are your ancestors, you are nothing but the dust and memories of the heavens,” she says, snacking on the eyeballs of dead warriors.  “The trick would be on Coyote, if only you could remember that there’s nothing to learn.  Your celestial body knows it all already.”