Wednesday, 30 August 2017
Something elastic stretches from inside the broken flesh, pulled by the coyote's clenched jaw and bared teeth. It snaps with a wet slap and splats blood on his stained muzzle (from years of successful scavenging). Each rebirth recalls the faint red dye of blood around his chops, his human eyes betraying his heritage as he morphs. He licks his lips and looks down at the drifter, soft guts spilling from the torn flesh of the belly. Blood seeps into the yellow sand and between the copse growing by the side of the deserted highway. A tent sits empty 20 metres away; what was once the drifter's is now his until the desert sun calls his name again, demanding that the scavenge continues.