The Borderlands

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At first glance, it looked like the coyote was taking a nap on the side of the road. He was slightly curled up, his head turned to look down the long straightaway. He looked healthy in his winter coat, with a ruff of heavy fur around his neck.

Nearly all of my commute is on the outskirts of the towns I pass by, the borderlands between the islands of houses and stores and the open desert in between. The mountains, San Gorgonio on the north and San Jacinto on the south, act as impenetrable walls to the spread of the city.

Even these open spaces are populated, with creatures you don't normally see from a car on the highway. Animals that live in the desert, or that have been lost there, or abandoned. But you do see them when their paths have intersected with ours on the highway. There are fresh kills every morning.

As I pass the coyote, a puff of air ruffles the thick hair on the muscular neck. I follow the direction he was looking, where the granite bulk of San Jacinto fills the sky.

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