He had already stolen fire from the Fire People, tucking a burning coal into a hollow reed and racing across the plains until the smoke made him sneeze and sparks flew into the pine trees. That trick worked so well, he thought, why not try again?
Coyote was hungry for more .
“I’m enlightened ,” slurred Coyote, and promptly fell into the cooking fire.
Coyote stared at his reflection. The creature in the water was old, tired, and wearing a fool’s expression. For once, he had nothing clever to say. Some say Coyote learned his lesson that day. They say he never touched fire water again. Coyote-s Tale. Fire Water
So when he smelled the strange new vapor rising from a canyon pool—steam that shimmered like heat lightning and bit the nose like a rattler’s tail—Coyote grinned.
“You’re drunk, brother,” said Badger.
Finally, on the fourth morning, Coyote buried the gourd and sang a quiet song: “I stole the flame for warmth and light. I stole the water to feel bright. But fire in the belly burns the soul. And too much bright will leave you coal.” Then he walked away, limping a little, and never stole fire water again. He had already stolen fire from the Fire
But Coyote, clever and crooked as a juniper branch, had other plans.
“You look like you swallowed a porcupine,” said the crow.
And sometimes, that’s the only kind of redemption a trickster gets. What’s your take—does Coyote deserve forgiveness, or just better judgment? Drop a thought in the comments. 🐺🔥 “I’m enlightened ,” slurred Coyote, and promptly fell
At first, he felt powerful. His fur stood on end. He could see the wind. He could count the bones in his own tail.
Not for rabbit. Not for roots.
That was the first lesson of fire water: it burns twice. Once going down. Once when you wake up. Coyote crawled to the river at dawn. His head felt like a drum someone had beaten all night. His eyes were red as embers. A crow landed nearby and laughed—a rusty, knowing sound.
