Coyote scratched at the mosquito bite on the back of his hand and the two on the shoulder. Another on his foot itched. The more he scratched, the more bites seemed to appear.
He thought there had to be some kind of wisdom in that and sat there, not scratching, trying to tease the idea out of its little den, but only ever seeing a flash of its head or glimpse of its tail or hearing a slight snarl.
With no other choice, Coyote stuck his arm in the hole, hoping he’d only pull out what he was looking for.