The man liked to cry out into the night, asking questions for which he knew there could be no answers, or if there were, they would be things he would never wish to hear. The coyotes in the hills would listen to his pleas, his entreaties, his moaning, and they would remember the spirits of the old ones gone, and yet back in their now-animal forms. One night a trickster sat on the mesa, and when the man began his questions, the trickster, orange eyes aflame spoke clearly, loudly, telling the man that the answer to each of his questions lay within himself, and he need only look there, if he had the courage, which the coyote knew, he lacked.
Now then, he says, and at once he is again victim of the confusion that he spreads in his wake. She takes him to task again, but he protests that what was now is clearly then, now, and this now, too, is now then, for each now is gone in the time it takes to recognize it as now. Now is always then, he says, as he quickly walks off in each of the ten directions.
He wasn’t sure he wanted it, was fairly certain he did not, and in that moment,was certain he would get it, so he began developing elaborate plans on what to do with it when it arrived. He laid them out in painful detail, each step, each move carefully choreographed. He waited patiently, each minute washing into the next until it was hours, then days, then months. He reassessed his plans for it, fine tuned them daily. He grew older, until one day he could no longer remember what it was, and moments later it arrived, and there it sat unseen and unrecognized.