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.
“I feel like I gave birth to one,” groaned Coyote. Coyote-s Tale. Fire Water
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. Coyote stared at his reflection
In the old days—before the rivers learned to bend, and when the stars still whispered secrets to the wind—Coyote was hungry. Some say Coyote learned his lesson that day
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. 🐺🔥
“That,” he said to no one, “is fire water .” The People of the Sweet Springs kept the fire water in clay jars sealed with pine pitch. They said it was not for drinking—not really. It was for visions. For ceremonies. For speaking to the Grandfathers who lived beyond the Milky Way.
That’s a lie.