On Monday Morning

Coyotes wander
weaving silent tracks
down the canyons
of development.
Eyeing slow fat housecats
and garbage cans
rickracking the street.
I stop
they think they are invisible
I hold my breath as to be unseen.
Tamed by the familar
they slip away
a whisp of smoke grey fur
that wraps the hunters hunger
reflected in an amber eye.