The Scuffle by Andrew Hubbard Who would believe A coyote would slink Onto our front porch On a mild November night? Our husky flew through the door In a mixture of outrage and fury. They were matched in size. My dog had indignation going for him (And that’s not a small thing), But speed and ferocity Were all on the side of the coyote. The death bite was not far away When I got there with a handgun And shot the interloper twice through the chest. He laid down and died Spraying blood across the porch, His wicked teeth chomping, His eyes blazing violence Until they dulled and closed. Our boy only had light cuts On his lips and muzzle And one on his shoulder. Easy to dress, but he shivered And whimpered until my wife Found a codeine pill from when They pulled my wisdom teeth. Even then he cried in his sleep All night long. And in the morning He climbed into my lap And buried his face in my armpi...
Flying Island is the Online Literary Journal of the Indiana Writers Center, accepting submissions from Midwest residents and those with significant ties to the Midwest.