by Karen Pierce Gonzalez
Searching, not finding any trace of Coyote, I rock myself to sleep. Moments later, her tail brushes my face. Her low whine playful to my ears. Her eager eye, two moons illuminating the blue haze of midnight. She wants me to catch her in corners where, sinews stretched, she shoves against my tightened grip. Then scampers back into darkness through a window I’ll never close. Karen Pierce Gonzalez’s fiction, non-fiction, and poetry have appeared in FERAL, Grey Thoughts, Pandemic Puzzle Poems, Postcard Poems and Prose, Riverbed Review, San Francisco Magazine, Tiny Thimble Magazine, Twist in Time, and other publications. Her chapbook Down River with Li Po (Finishing Line Press) will be released this Fall. A former journalist and folklore columnist, she is also an assemblage artist and has exhibited at numerous galleries, including Santa Rosa Arts Center, Sebastopol Center for the Arts, Truckenbrod Gallery, and Tiny Kiosk. Back to issue