83 Psaltery & Lyre: Dayna Patterson, “The Encounter”

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The Encounter

Coming home from a nine-mile run
along the snaking bank of the Rio Grande,
I see a blur flutter on the path,
an animal alone, no owner in sight.

The closer I come, the more detail
I notice. No leash, or collar, eyes
two glowing yellow moons, fur
the beige and gold of arroyo sand.

I won’t lie-my breath catches.
My grip tightens on a tiny can
of pepper spray. I step
deliberately away from the trail-

till I hear an old man on a parallel
path, not fifty feet off, call out,
Don’t worry. She’s more afraid of you
than you are of her. It’s okay.

The coyote and I regard one another.
I want to believe. The early light
makes mini suns in her curious eyes.
Wind rustles through her clever coat.

Then she is gone. A flash of sleek
movement from path to riverbank
to a grove of gracious cottonwoods.
Her paws leave spare prints in the sand.

I thank the old man, who watches,
and continue my course. Adrenaline
from the encounter pricks my pace,
and I run without pain, pure current,

as if, four-legged, I fly.

Dayna Patterson doesn’t do nine-mile runs anymore. She prefers strolls and maxes out at around one mile. On the whole, she is more afraid of spiders than coyotes.