At Coyote's Cupboard

Under a winter sun so low high noon never arrived, I traipse through a foot of snow to the lava cave called Coyote's Cupboard.

Fresh coyote tracks pattern the snow, winding through pines and sagebrush and basalt from one cave to the next. At Coyote's Cupboard, the tracks go in one entrance and out the other. The air in the cave smells like he spent at least the night here, out of the storm.

I linger until sundown and walk back through the winter twilight. Clouds press low. Pines become shadows. Somewhere in the trees a coyote yips, then yips from someplace else.