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I am taking the on-ramp to I-675
when I see him
and he sees me,
stopping mid-slink
on the scant triangle of grass.
He's not supposed to be there,
or maybe it's us,
but someone is in the wrong place
and we stare, surprised.
"Coyote! Coyote!" I yell like a madwoman,
forgetting to point so my children will know
in what direction to look.
Cars are coming behind me,
curtailing my rolling stop,
and still I am chanting coyote-coyote
as if I have never seen wildlife before;
and while I remember to speed up
and merge with traffic
my kids lament with bitter accusations
that I did not have the decency
nor presence of mind
to point
and let them see, too.
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by Esther Mills
I am taking the on-ramp to I-675
when I see him
and he sees me,
stopping mid-slink
on the scant triangle of grass.
He's
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Poetry: Driving humor
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