Here's what I wrote to go with this image last night, at 1 am, scant millimetres from sleeping on the keyboard:

"Within coyote culture there can be no one shaman. In a society that prizes humor and trickery, a single spiritual figurehead would be subject to constant mockery and scornful doubt... and would himself be inclined to play tricks on his followers to keep them on their toes.

No one can be serious all the time, and no one can be silly all the time. Neither night nor day, manic nor depressive, the coyote dances a fine line along the terminator betwixt all that is most solemn and that which is most fantastic.

Thus each coyote is his own shaman, finds his own spiritual path. The few things he takes as solemn spiritual truths are never shared or spoken. That would deny another his own journey. But they may be hinted at, joked about, or illustrated by means of subtle subterfuge... and that is the coyote way."

I should never be permitted to write while in the grip of mental exhaustion. You, Indulgent Viewer, end up with pseudo-poetry and pictures like this. I just KNOW I'm unconconsiously quoting something I read somewhere.

In true coyote fashion, nothing about this image is what I originally intended. He started out as a quick figure drawing, just something to fill the page so I could get on with finishing Misha. An hour later, I was still tweaking him.

He was going to be an arctic fox until I realized he was too lanky. When his true coyoteness became clear, the rest fell into place.

I love his torso markings. They're so neat I worry that I've seen them somewhere and forgotten...