do you walk fearfully along the paths of the coyote

that reckless trickster,
that howler in the night
do you shudder in the darkness
at
       the noises
at
       the silence
at
       sudden movements
and the overwhelming doubt

There are agents here
agendas of their own
rememberers of memories,
the storymakers ,
beaters of drums,
those long in the tooth
      the watchers
     the haters.

Does your heart pound in your chest
as you flee through the trees.
Great wings beating -
                             too close for comfort.
The moon
                casting baleful glances
from behind parasitic clouds
silver glimpses like shafts of ice
        crashing down
onto the gentle forrest floor

And you know that they are writing it all down.
Every single bit.
Nothing left to chance.
Inky fingers creep their bones
across yellowed pages.
Accounting in the ledgers
incidents of loathing
moments mistaken for others
every guilty conscience
and perhaps the worst crime of all
                  each failed hope

do you sit shaking in the pale dawn
trembling and dirty
in the thin feeble light
mud streaked across stretched skin

             waiting

for the screaming to stop
to catch your breath

and let the words
        come
    tumbling out