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The Lookout Tree

“Are they gone?” Danny gasps. He is still a heap on the platform, motionless except for the heaving of his chest.

“Nope,” I say. “We’re gonna have to wait.”

“Cloud Food,” by Julia Gibson

It was the third dry year. There had been a stream once, made of snowmelt from the mountains to the north, but even the snow had been sparse the winter our coyote mother met our dad, a dog who had his own concerns. When he stopped showing up, it wasn’t because he didn’t want to, Mam said. His obligations conflicted.