Clenched on a branch between 

two inch-long mesquite thorns, 

the ice-blue legs of the red-eyed vireo 

thrill the starving coyote 

who just ate an old wasp nest.

He creeps, slow as a barn shadow,

through grass with sharp hope.

He should hunt at night.

All this through the scope of a rifle, 

a finger on the trigger 

then off the trigger

and on.