The Collar Slips to the Floor, and With it, Goes Everything We Ever Were.

[Coyote]

She knows it is time to leave.

He took off the collar, and with it, everything they ever were melts into memory.

She will go, for a time, but always return. The range of her territory, grows slowly outward, in a spiral. She returns to him, his love, his home, his arms. Less and less often. One little thing at a time. He can't be there to feed her today. But maybe tomorrow. She'll stay around hungry for a couple of days, but after that she'll go off on her own. Hunting, scavenging, scrounging. Doing what she's always done. Then the new of 'it will be weeks' until she sees him. She knows. She's always known. This is just not a thing she can have.

She is not His, not anymore. Not now.

She will check his home often at first, and less often as time goes on. Checking for signs of a fresh scent or activity. Food or treats left out, so she knows he's thinking of her, even if he can't be there. But she knows these things too, will fade and become a memory.

Coyote knows these things all to well. And as the season of coyote draws closed, she walks. Head down, ears back and tail low. Not fearful or anxious, but sad. The memories are fresh and bright and the loss stings sharp inside her.

Tears well in her eyes, their warmth running down her cheeks. Things grow in the small space where those tears fell. The desert craves water. Leaflets and fronds rupture from the damp earth, leaves green and unfurling. Give them time, they will grow into something lovely and beautiful.

Time.

It's all we need. In time this will become but a memory. The bitterness washed way rain (tears), thunder (anger), leaving wet ground and that scent in the air that only comes after it rains. In those once-small spaces where tiny green things grew, there will be plants, and flowers and beauty. A set and stage for this coyote to make something new.