I grew up hearing stories about running at night.

Stories from my dad and uncles I grew up hearing stories about running at night,

stories from my dad and uncles about pounding dirt roads under a vast sky filled with stars.

For Navajo people, running is more than exercise.

It's part of tradition, identity, something deep-rooted.

My father said running brought clarity, connecting you with

something old and strong that slept beneath the red desert earth. I thought about those stories as I

laced up my shoes, stepping out onto my grandmother's porch near Chinle. Winter break brought me back

from ASU, where life had felt hurried and disconnected.

I missed the quiet of home. It was late December, two days before Christmas. The evening air

was cold, heavy, the sun already dipping below the mazes and painting the horizon red.

I zipped up my jacket, pulled my hoodie over

my head, and took off down the dirt road toward junction overlook. The first mile felt good. My lungs

filled with sharp air, the dirt crunching rhythmically underfoot. It was exactly what I needed.

Solitude, familiar terrain, the soothing rhythm of my stride.

But then, as I crested the hill, something broke my concentration.

A large coyote stood motionless on a dirt berm a short distance ahead, watching me.

Coyotes weren't uncommon, especially at dusk, but this one was unsettling.

Its eyes glowed back at me, catching the fading sunlight, steady and fixed.

I slowed down, half expecting it to dart off into the scrub.

It didn't.

Its gaze remained locked onto me, unmoving. Just a coyote, I whispered to myself, steadying my breath.

...