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The coyote and the little black boy waved at us. My vision tunneled like I was using a fist telescope. Somehow I could see them more clearly than the distance should have allowed. As we froze in apprehension, they sprung into action and began running in different directions down the rocky ravine. They moved with impossible speed, and in less than a minute, were over a half mile apart.



Then, in unison, they turned and began to hurtle up the side of the low peaks across from us. Like mountain goats, they leapt from rock to rock with total abandon, moving up the rocky face until they simultaneously reached the tops to their respective cliffs. There, like tourists on a sightseeing trip, they turned to wave, and sauntered over the top out of sight.



I felt a dizzying sense of unknown dread. The real world of plant, rock and sky was collapsing into a confused, uncontrolled disarray. Angel must have felt the same. He moved closer to me and grabbed onto my arm. A sudden breeze sprang into being, and in seconds, building like a prairie fire, it became a fitful gale. He slung his guitar over his back and hustled me over to the limited protection of the big cedar, as twigs and small rocks jumped like swarms of crazed grasshoppers around the mountaintop.


We cowered beneath the old tree, with our backs to the freak wind, feeling small and fearful. The wind gained strength until it had swollen into a dry, slashing maelstrom, then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped, leaving only a dull humming in the distance. I looked over at Angel. His knuckles were white where he had hugged his guitar to his chest. His hair was wild and full of cedar needles and twigs. His eyes were wide.