FSE

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_ Finding the Other Spirit _ _ 2011 by Eldyran _

A semi roars past me on the dark stretch of Highway 200, buffeting my orange winter vest with its wake. The gritty backwash pushes me off the shoulder. For a moment my fine brown hair blows across my face and obscures my vision. The trailer's six red lights leave me far behind but never flash as they approach Fox Lake.

I carry on, hiking boots shuffling on cracked, moonlit asphalt.

The massive truck growls as its driver engine-brakes around the final bend to town. Even though its driver can take this highway from Idaho all the way to Minnesota, I don't understand why anyone would. There are faster routes. Routes that bypass potholes like Fox Lake. One could drive for hours out here without bumping into a single abandoned ranch or shuttered church. There is the occasional town. If you call them that. You'd notice a large pothole long before you'd notice Fox Lake. There just isn't a whole lot here. A school. A church. A cemetery. A rarely used rail line.

But there is a bar. What passes for one around these parts anyway. As Billy Joel suggests, a bar is where strangers share a drink called loneliness, but it's better than drinking alone.

A sudden gust of wind laps at my nape, its early September chill seeping down my spine. I hunch my vest closer to my back in futile effort. This far out along the plains, there isn't much protection from the wind. It can be pretty cruel sometimes, and even though it's the whole reason why I came out west, it's just another desolate howl in my ears.

Why am I out here? Even now I head farther west, passing the very windmills I came out to build, their blades whooshing about in eternal circles. Is it because I really just want another beer? Am I just lonely? I feel pulled more than pushed, but by what I can't say.

Dark streaks of clouds pass overhead, obscuring the waxing moon. I don't bother to look to either side. All that stretches under the big open sky are ranchland and telephone poles. Montana boasts a ton of steers but regretfully very few queers.

I look down to my boots; phantasmal shapes that shuffle across the broken pavement without end. I concentrate on them to carry me forward. It's not that I have much farther to go, but the autumn's nip seeping through my jeans has turned the subtle itch in my bladder into a scream. I pass by a rectangular shadow on the shoulder. With the moonlight behind it, it's hard to make out: Welcome to Fox Lake. Home of Lambert's Lions!

The porch lights of a few homes come into view. The dogs chained in their backyards bark at my perceived intrusion, stir up the coyotes scrounging about in the distance. Their cries carry far across the empty range, a forlorn crescendo that haunts me and yet feels familiar at the same time.

It's the story of my life. I know there are others out there. I can hear them. But contact with them would be fleeting. We might even cross paths without realizing it. Sometimes all I want is to find that other spirit.

I take out my cell as I turn onto Main Street. The panel's fluorescence blinds me temporarily. Once my eyes adjust, I read the time and tuck it away. It's just past eleven. The walk here took just under an hour. I would have driven the Wrangler but it's in the shop getting a new tranny. Without wheels it's hard to get anywhere. Without friends it's tough to do anything. I've been here in Fox Lake for two months, and I still only know a handful of its few residents.

In a town of just over a hundred and fifty people, that's a feat in itself.

The short hike down Main turns into one of Richard Bachman's long walks of death-defying endurance. It feels like someone has fisted me and started squeezing my bladder in sadistic rhythm. The light buzz I had going an hour ago is almost gone, leaving me the sharp ache in all its splendor.

It's my own fault. Once I emptied the last four beers at my trailer, I somehow decided that it'd be a good idea to find more. The data limit on my phone ran dry two weeks ago. Between the pleasant buzz and the loss of connection to anything remotely resembling companionship, I decided to head out.

I pass cars parked on the street now. Farther down Main I can see the shops closed: pale ghosts with little lighting, if any, their signs dark, their doors locked. This pothole on Highway 200 starts closing down at five sharp.

The only sign that's lit is for the Lion's Den. My destination isn't that far away. But I'll be damned if each lumbering step isn't absolute torture now. I should have scooted off the shoulder and into the sagebrush long before I got into town. I could have relieved myself like a mangy dog in secret rather than worrying about dropping into the town's only gossip hot spot with a big wet splotch running down the front of my brand new jeans.

"Pretty classy for a college boy," they'd snicker. "He knows the ins and outs of an Enercon E-126 HAWT pretty well, but he has problems with his fly."

A few of the pickup trucks parked outside the bar have rifles stashed in their gun racks. It's still another week or two for the game season to open up, but that doesn't seem to matter to their owners. They're brave enough to tackle the night with spotlights if necessary.

The neon Miller sign in the cracked window flickers as I approach. Its buzz seems to rattle in my itchy brain. It's a good thing that all it's doing now is forcing the loose noodles of my legs onward. Still, the moment my hand closes around the chilled door handle, I know that the hardest part of my night is over. I can relax now.

Well, right after I take care of a rather pressing concern.

The Lion's Den is your average small town bar: pool table, dart board, and one of those new digital juke boxes that steals your money faster than old man alcoholism. The air is thick with cigarette smoke and stale beer. On Fridays the owners fire up the kitchen in back for their fish fry special and add palpable fat to the bar's atmosphere. The nuts have long since gone stale. It's the crowds that draw people in. And by crowd I mean a fifth of Fox Lake's legal age residents. On Fridays. For the fish.

But it's Tuesday.

There's ten people in tonight, tops. That includes the bartender and the local fixture who spends enough time here to pull double duty as the bouncer. They chat at the end of the U-shaped bar, and only break when someone flags for a refill.

On my fast track to the restroom I take quick stock of who else is here: Three young ranch hands standing by the pool tables, cues in hand, digging on their boss's wife. Two chummy bar flies sitting at the bar going on about who they are cheating on and why. There's a middle-aged woman with large round glasses farther down the bar scribbling on a steno pad. A guy slouches down by one corner beneath his sun-bleached cowboy hat, smoking and paying close attention to the lighter in his callused hands. The creeper sitting alone in one of the booths seems pretty content to sneer at the texts he's receiving on his cell; while nursing his beer, he casts an occasional glance over to either one of the barflies' asses, whichever one conforms to its respective stool the finest at that particular moment.

No one pays attention to me on my way to the restroom. The less said about the state of it the better. Unusable urinals, a pissed-on toilet seat that I unknowingly sit on, homophobic slurs engraved on the stall walls and barely legible in the light from the single grimy bulb. In my fuzzy state, I wonder who left this wet gift for me. By the time I'm done the piss vigilantes are starting a new game of pool. While the concussive clacks of a fresh break knock about the bar, one of them notices my off-kilter gait from my wet ass and throws a grin my way. Thanks, Fucker.

In my absence someone was foolish enough to donate to the jukebox. Johnny Cash warns about the Ring of Fire, trumpets tapping out a festive bar mood. I take a seat kitty corner to where the cowboy is smoking and across the U from where the note-taking lady sits. It's equidistant to anyone else. Perfect for not wanting to attract any unwanted attention. Perfect for attracting the right type of attention. Alice nods to the regular and glides over to where I'm sitting.

"What'll it be, hon?" she asks curtly. The look in her dull green eyes is at odds with the forged smile on her painted lips. The skin of her face is cracked and wrinkled.

"You have anything on special tonight?"

"Taps two for one on domestic." Alice drones on in decades-rehearsed mantra. "We've also got imports on the back of the menu." Her chicken bone fingers snatch a nearby menu and flip it over in front of me. It's hard to read with the splotches of crusty ketchup on it.

"Start me off with a Miller Lite, bottle, please." I fish a Jackson from my wallet and lay it on the bar in front of me while Alice glides on rails back to the ice bin. A few seconds later she drops off the beer and scoops up the Jackson. My lips hug the cold lip of the bottle before Alice can even come by to drop off the change. I leave her a dollar for her trouble.

A few more gulps slide down to slosh in my empty stomach. I try to pace myself. I fail. Fifteen minutes later I find the dreaded bottom of the first bottle. It doesn't sit on the bar longer than thirty seconds before Alice swings back over. The booms of bad country music muffle her question, but a nod on my part brings its replacement. I drop another dollar for her time.

Beer two slides down even smoother than the first. The clack of pool balls and clink of bottles break through the background music in sporadic bursts. The undercurrent of muddled conversation gives the much needed illusion of being connected. With my stomach filling with cheap alcohol and the relative strangers around me going about their inconsequential lives, I can at least pretend I'm not alone. Here I can forget that I've always been on the outside, looking in. A lone spirit.

It takes me a while to figure out I've been staring at the counter for quite some time, thinking about blessed nothing, and enjoying the numbness creeping though me. I glance about, rubbing the slight patch of stubble at the end of my chin in buzzed Zen-like contemplation.

Creeper is gone. Where he went is anyone's guess. I pick up bits and pieces of what I missed from the barflies' indignant and equally obnoxious conversation. Sounds like I missed a really desperate pass. Not that I find straight drama all that interesting. The two barflies probably just rolled their eyes and ignored him. Creeper made himself scarce before attracting the bouncer's attention. End of story.

Alice and the regular seem to be nodding their heads in mutual agreement. What it's about probably isn't any of my concern.

Shooting pool seems to have taken a back seat for the ranch hands. An impressive array of empty beer bottles litters a nearby table. Seems they don't trust the taps either. It's hard to make out what they are talking about over the music, clustered in a tight circle that makes the barflies' personal zone look like the Breaks.

I glance over to the woman with the steno pad. Her short-cropped, graying hair makes her look rugged. Her face looks like it's seen its fair share of wind and rain. She's wearing green checkered flannel over a light sweater. Maybe she's an outdoor writer; used to how quickly Montana nights can steal your warmth if you aren't prepared. She's no longer scribbling on her pad. Instead she seems to have taken an unusual interest in the man hiding under the cowboy hat.

My eyes skirt over to what seems to have piqued her interest. The man slouches back, his salt and pepper goatee tucked down tight against his adam's apple. The brim of his weathered hat dips to just below his eyebrows, hiding half his face. There's a stub of a Marlboro dangling between a pair of cracked lips. He's wearing one of those duster coats which hangs down to the legs of his bar stool.

I can see the calluses of his hands from across the bar. His left flicks the lid off his brass Zippo, igniting it with his thumb in one smooth, practiced motion. He snaps it shut, killing the flame, only to repeat the motion a few seconds later. I can't tell how old he is. Each time the wick flares, the shadow masking his face recedes for a second, just enough to give a tantalizing gleam. His features are a peculiar mix of Native and European blood.

It's hard to tell from his face alone how old he is. Past the goatee and hint of stubble, his cheeks look creased but not wrinkled. It's the look of constant windburn. He can't be much older than me. Middle thirties at most. I can tell by the glint in his amber eyes. Focused. Ravenous. Their irises flicker within the shadow mask like the flame of the Zippo they pretend to concentrate on.

Dark eyes. Trickster eyes.

I follow the path of his gaze and suddenly realize what has struck the writer as interesting. He's only watched the young ranch hands this whole time. It's like the barflies, with their gaudy skirts and overemphasized cleavage, don't even exist in the same universe.

Is he gay?

My eyes drop to the counter and fight to focus on the lip of my near empty bottle. So what? What if he is? It's none of my business. After a few minutes of renewed despondency, I pull another swig from the bottle, emptying it. Alice doesn't even have to ask this time. She sees me fishing for my wallet. Beer three drops in front of me, ice dripping onto its throw-away coaster. I leave two dollars this time.

The familiar itch in my bladder tells me it's time to make another deposit. I slide off my stool and head back to the restroom, reevaluating the two urinals. My prissy nature picks the lesser of the two evils and I step up, unzipping. All I need to make this moment perfect is for someone to come in while I'm holding myself for all to see.

As if on cue the restroom door swings open with a creak. My grip tightens on myself on gut instinct. My bladder, so eager to empty itself just a few seconds ago, seizes like a rusty axle. I stare straight at the tiled wall, motionless. The clomp of heavy cowboy boots moves closer. A weighty presence passes behind me, then pauses. I lick my dry lips, bearing down on my lower stomach. A single drop of urine wells up at my meatus, then just hangs there. A desperate shake does nothing but jostle my bladder. My lungs are frozen.

Someone steps up in the stall next to mine. They could have just taken the toilet. I even cleaned up the seat for them. My adam's apple bobs as the person next to me unzips his fly. Without moving my eyes, I allow my peripheral vision to pick up any vague detail. My heart thunders when I sense the rough collar of a wind-beaten duster.

This close, I can smell the faded hint of his aftershave under his natural scent. 'Stetson' and dried sweat. A guilty pang rips through me as my blood surges southward. All that separates our exposed cocks is a flimsy divider. I'm torn between letting this moment drag on for eternity or cutting my losses and getting the hell out of here. I'm pretty confident that Fox Lake's lamp posts have already been urinated on before in utter desperation.

Instead I stand there like a frozen rabbit. No. I won't run. I close my eyes and imagine him reaching around the divider to give me a hand. He knows how to help a fella out. His rough calluses have seen plenty of shaft before. He isn't the type to strangle me for even thinking this. For all I know he's even thinking the same thing.

The fantasy steadies my nerves, and before I realize it a stream of hot piss hits the urinal. Small droplets of fly-back sprinkle my pubes. I resist the natural groan as the tension in my bladder eases. My lungs deflate in relief. I cram everything back in my pants, difficult with a half-erection, and try not to catch myself in my own zipper. The sink is where I last left it. A good thing, since I have a hard time navigating anything resembling straight at this point.

Any other guy probably would just walk out the door. I find myself scrubbing my cuticles under the lukewarm faucet. It's only after catching myself unconsciously preening in the smudged mirror that I shoot a half sideways glance to the cowboy still making his business. There's a hint of an amused smile on his weathered face.

My cheeks burn with booze and embarrassment. I leave abruptly, cursing at myself.

My seat is also where I left it, keeping my warming beer company. I return to my perch and resume the routine. Alice is clearing the ranch hands' table. The regular is messing around with one of those fake electronic slot machines in her absence. Maybe they have something steady going on. I look around but don't see the writer anymore.

It takes me a while to pull out the cell from my tight jeans pocket, like it's caught on something. A quick, annoyed tug frees it. There's a metal jingle somewhere, but in my stupor, I just attribute it to Alice's cleaning. When I take a quick peek, I realize it's almost midnight. The phone slides back in without any trouble.

The alpha ranch hand, the one with the piss fetish, seems to be preaching to his betas about some phantasmal infraction the county sheriff cited him with. If I didn't know any better I'd say he was yelling at his cronies. A minute later Cowboy comes waltzing back in and retakes his seat. With Alice still busy cleaning up the swath of destruction near the pool tables, Regular notices something about Cowboy's mannerism and waddles over.

I tilt my beer back a few times while they talk. After a few minutes Regular squeezes his pot belly behind the bar and grabs a liter of RoughStock. He slides it over to Cowboy and makes change while Alice is busy busing the trash back to the kitchen. I'm sure that's all types of illegal. Either way, the remaining company this late is getting a bit dodgy, and I have to work in the morning.

I drain what's left of the bottle and fumble for my wallet. The music has long since died. Alice will return from the kitchen to find Lincoln waiting for her.

The cold night air slaps me across the face as I stumble out the front door. I almost turn the wrong direction, toward the wildlife refuge, before regaining my bearings toward the highway. A block later I stick my hands in my pockets and tuck my chin down into my collar. The clouds have thinned overhead. Moonlight bathes everything in pale shades of black and gray.

But something is wrong.

I stop suddenly when my hands grope about the insides of my pocket and only find my cell. My keys! A loud curse crosses my lips as I look back down Main. An errant gust blows my fine hair back into my eyes. Any other night I'd just leave them there. Alice would probably stash them in the register until I came back for them the next day, but I locked my trailer before leaving. I'd sleep in the Wrangler, but its still in the shop. Why am I so reluctant to go back to the bar?

A few minutes later I pop back into the Lion's Den. Alice looks up from her conversation with Regular and shoots me a quizzical look. I stand in the doorway for several seconds, hesitant to step further in. The Cowboy has moved. Right next to my old seat. My keys lie just underneath.

My heart hammers as I walk closer. My legs feel soggy. The ranch hands notice my return, and watch every awkward step I make. After what seems an eternity I near the stool and gingerly stoop down. My quivering outstretched fingertips are just inches from my keys when the Cowboy speaks up.

"Forget something, Cirape?"

His voice is low and deep. The accent is Crow. He stares forward, taking another shot of RoughStock. The name he speaks freezes me in place. I don't recognize it, but it seems to stir a familiar itch in me.

"Sit down and have a drink, younger brother," he says, picking up one of two shot glasses and planting it on the bar in front of me. As the glass thumps against the wood, the jukebox kicks back to life of its own volition, dialing up some more Cash. The three ranch hands turn at the unexpected sound, then rib each other for looking. They forget about me.

I snatch up my keys and take my seat, bewildered. The Cowboy pours me a shot. I'm about to say something about having to walk home when his right hand crosses the invisible divide between us and pats my left thigh. There can't be any doubt now. I know what he is. What he wants.

"Don't worry. I'll take you home." His touch is warmer than it should be. My leg tingles from the reassuring gesture before he pulls away. It felt so good to have it there. I shoot a glance back to the ranch hands, heart hammering again. I hope they didn't see that. Luckily they are too busy jostling each other to notice. With a nervous hand I pick up the shot glass and down its contents. The whiskey burns all the way down to my gut.

"I hear you are the wind farmer who is going to take my job," he says. There is a moment of awkward silence as I steady myself. After the intimate touch, I can't understand his accusatory tone.

"You must work the Elm Coulee Field, then," I shoot back. Oil and Wind. Both are abundant in eastern Montana. Both tend to start bar fights. He nods while pouring another round of shots. Cowboy pops his back like mouthwash as I continue. "You make it a habit of letting evils loose on the Earth, Cowboy?" I spout off without really thinking, and immediately cringe at my own tree-hugging naïveté. Even my old college buddies used to give me shit for my unbridled optimism. Instead of sneering, the man just shrugs as I toss my shot back.

"I'll take credit for all the fun stuff. War. Weapons. Sex," he offers with deadpan indifference. "Taxes on the other hand ..." Only then does he turn to me, smiling. His teeth are sharp, nicotine and coffee stained, but otherwise perfect. His breath smells of vice and all the younger things he's seduced. Despite our polarity, I feel entranced. Pulled in like a magnet. Wanting more.

"So," I stammer. "You have a name?"

He turns back, taking off his hat to run dry hands though his hair. It's straight and raven black with white at its tips. He replaces his hat and digs in his long coat for a while, produces a half-mashed pack of Marlboros. He extracts one, miraculously intact, and packs the filter against the counter.

"They used to call me the Old Man around here." He sticks the cigarette in his mouth, going for his Zippo before continuing, "But everyone either moved on or forgot." He flicks the lighter, igniting it. Before pulling it under the cigarette's tip he stares at the wavering flame.

"You know," he muses in wry reminiscence, "this used to be a big deal." He turns and grins at me again as he lights his slow cancer. Despite myself I smile back, watching as the dark smoke curls out of his flared nostrils and drifts up. We sit there for a while, talking like that. Sharing whiskey. Taking jabs at each other. It's like we can't agree on anything, but we both enjoy the back and forth.

I'm enjoying myself too much to notice exactly when the two bar flies get up and leave. They probably were hoping that either the ranch hands, the Cowboy, or myself would take an interest in one of them. I can probably speak for Cowboy and myself, but I'm not entirely sure about the ranch hands.

How long do I parley with Old Man? It feels like forever. In the morning I'll probably blame it on mixing beer and hard liquor. But now I don't care. I'm finding my other spirit, and I'm not ready to let him go. More than anything I want his hand back on my thigh. To feel that warmth. That companionship. I want to be made whole.

My head swims. The floor tilts as if the wind itself is blowing me back and forth on top of my stool. Old Man notices his younger brother has had enough for one night.

"Well, Cirape, shall I take you home?" he asks, putting his hand on my shoulder. I lean over, more than I anticipate. My face finds his shoulder, much to the amusement of Alice and Regular. It's a tender, drunken scene. One that looks a bit too cozy for piss Alpha's liking. His hand tightens on his pool cue. The way he sees it, he marked me good earlier tonight. And Cowboy has no right infringing on any of that.

A simple nod is all it takes. Despite having half the bottle himself, Old Man has no problems lending me his shoulder to guide my drunk ass out the bar. The night doesn't seem as chilly now that my skin tingles with fire. The moon sways above me as I stumble alongside Cowboy. This close, he smells so good and feels so warm. It's the closest I've been with another guy in quite some time. It takes me a while to notice we're passing by the closed shops of downtown.

"What ... where we going?" I murmur into his shoulder. Deep down I know he's trouble. Somehow I don't entirely care. We turn to the west. Toward the wildlife refuge. The same direction I almost headed earlier without realizing it.

"I'm taking you home, younger brother." His callused hand caresses my back. Each time he calls me that, something inside me flutters. It's the feeling of ... belonging.

Passing by shuttered windows and locked doorways, we are utterly alone. It's well past midnight, and we are just two lone spirits shuffling through a small town's ghost. With no one else to be conscious of, the secret switch inside me flips. The rest of the world can burn now for all I care.

I shove the cowboy sideways into the next alley, brazen with drunken lust. Our feet skid across gravel at the awkward push. It's a wonder we don't fall and break something. His back slams into a brick wall and I'm on him like an animal. My lips scrape across the stubble of his right cheek. My hands find their way inside his coat, feeling the hard body forged from grueling twelve hour shifts on the oil fields. He moans at my unexpected boldness. His breath rushes past my hot ears. I'm too impatient to fumble his shirt buttons open. Instead I claw into them and they rip off.

I bury my nose into his exposed chest, into the small patch of coarse hair. This close, the enticing musk of honest work is too hard to resist. I inhale deeply, feeling Old Man's sharp fingernails digging into the back of my skull. He drags my head to the left. My mouth closes on one of his teats. I suckle greedily, alternating the grate of my teeth over its hard bud with a swirl of my eager tongue.

His groan echoes between grungy brick walls coated in years of blown grit and sullen desolation. Gravel crunches under my boots as I hastily adjust position. My hands clutch the remains of his shirt for support. Cowboy growls as I bite down on his nipple, forcing the back of my head closer. The taste of him makes me drip in my boxers.

I can tell he likes it rough. I'm more than happy to oblige.

But I'm only human. His nectar teases my senses. I want more. Old Man is not taken completely off guard as I slide down his rugged body. Along the way I pepper kisses down that salt laced, well defined belly. I do my best to ignore the bite of gravel into my knees as I nuzzle the hard denim tent now at eye level. I can feel his heat through the fly. It almost burns my nose. There's a soft clink as he undoes his belt buckle. It swings free, tapping me on the forehead as I unzip him.

My fingers reach in and pull out my prize. I nuzzle the burning shaft before my lips engulf him eagerly. There's something right about having him in my mouth. My tongue laps at the first quarter, just past his tip. The insides of my cheeks savor the shape of his hard rod. The ring of foreskin pulls back tight behind his mushroom as I take him all the way inside.

Old Man grips the back of my head and sets up a gentle rhythm. His tip tickles my tonsils as it saws back and forth between my lips. I choke back the gag reflex, concentrating on kneading his taut ass cheeks with each thrust. His primal grunts urge me onward. My head bobs, milking him for more of that sweetness dribbling into my stomach.

Loud slurping fills the alleyway as his thrusts grow more erratic. He's full-on face-mounting me now. The way Cowboy cradles the back of my head; there is no turning back. I grip his ass tighter, helping to drive him faster and faster. My nose mashes into his sparse pubic hair again and again.

Please Old Man, I plead unconsciously, silently. Give it to me.

His cracked lips curl as he hears my thoughts. A pair of growing canines presses tight against his darkening lips. His eyes pop open and look down with yellowing irises. The first molten spurt catches me off guard. It explodes in my mouth. The next gush hits the back of my throat. I swallow his gift to me, desperate to slake my thirst.

"Yesss, younger brother," he snarls low. "Drink ... and become whole."

His seed tingles in my stomach. A few moments later it becomes molten. With my mouth still full of him, I look up questioningly. His grin widens as the green vibrancy fades, then brightens into yellow. My numb mind wakes with dawning understanding. Who he really is. What he really is. Who I am. And what I will become.

As I pull off Old Man, a swelling orb flops out of my slack lips. I stare at it in disbelief. The shifting canid sex glistening in the moonlight dangles from a furry sheath. My scalp tingles as pointed ears reach for the waxing moon above. I drag thickening nails down the back of his legs in dumb shock.

The bones in my hands and feet ache. The pain travels along my limbs, racing towards my heart like a live current. The slightest breeze roars like a tornado in my new ears. A deep rhythmic thud reverberates up through my paws as they touch the ground. Is it the alcohol? Is it Old Man's gift? There is so much I want to ask him but can't now. Not with longer, darker lips.

I watch in fascination at the mirror before me. Old Man's clothes rumple to the ground as he tosses aside just one of his many masks. Is that what is happening to me as well? We crawl out of the tangle of our discarded disguises and nose each other. On instinct we sniff at each other's flanks, then rears.

The way he bounds around me, the way the moonlight highlights his glossy fur, everything about him is beautiful. His small nose. His huge ears. The bands of color in his ruddy fur. That ever swishing tail. Though opposites, we are two sides of the same coin: Young and Old. Wind and Earth. Starry-eyed and Jaded.

Overjoyed to have found each other again in spite of eternity's fissures, we dance like we did when the Earth was new.

The near simultaneous cock of several rifles breaks our dance. The pack of ranch hands converges on our alley after fetching the weapons from their trucks. The stench of hate rolls off them and crawls along the ground like an angry cloud. Their alpha gnashes his teeth. I can hear them grinding in the back of his jaw. His knuckles are bone white in the steely grip against the cold metal barrel.

What would have happened if I walked over after the toilet seat incident and gave him his due? Would he have welcomed me into his pack? Would he still bash me?

They sweep their rifles over the discarded husks of our wrangler wear. To them, they just caught two faggots in the buff. This raid will prove their tribe strong. They grin at each other and move blindly into the alley. We are cloaked by shadow, old medicine, and best yet, trash cans. They do not see the ambush we spring.

Four-legged shadows leap past their unsure footing. We barrel into the alpha's legs, knocking them out from under him. His shrill scream sends his pack into blind panic. We pounce them flat on their backs, leaping off and counting coup as their fire sticks crack harmlessly up at the moon.

We dart back and forth across each other, laughing at our own foolhardy exploits. Our timeless song reaches all the way to the moon on the way to the wildlife refuge. There we do what two jubilant and freshly mated coyotes do ...

* * * * *

Dedicated to Bryan, who works the oil fields of Montana in the hope of one day marrying Brent.

Biography

Christopher Wagoner lives near a wind farm in Dodge Center, MN. His writing also appeared in Vol 8 No 7 of 'The Harrow'.