Though the last wink of sun shone on the front, Coyote sat out back. Because that was where the lawn chair was. And the ashtray.
He tried to read. But could not. Coyote knew something was missing. It had been cold that winter. Be colder the next. But for now, young leaves stretched from fresh buds. Moss began to spread across the muck. Thicker in the rain drop dents and depressions under the roof’s edge.
The book sat in his lap. His hands as well. Earlier that day he’d realized something, and now, although he’d forgotten it, the thought returned.