Coyote

 

January 25, 2021

Greetings from the introduction,

As I write this, the morning light is still asleep.  Outside the glass there is a dusting of snow, held in place by frigid temperatures.  My windows, which only show darkness and the reflection of a man writing, face the woods.  The house is tucked against the edge of a small town, bordered and interlaced with farmland.  

On this stage there are all manner of wildlife.  I have come to love their company and shared some of those moments with you here.  But one member of the collective that prowls the trails between forest and fields has not been properly introduced.  Last night he reminded me, and he is out there in the dark now, I believe, watching to see I do my part.

Sometime when the stars were boldest, I heard the coyote howl.  I was deep asleep, and his call was so close it woke me.  It is a lonely, bright sound, something that pierces me, I feel it in my core.  The sound quickens something in me, not fear, something else.

As prevalent as they are here, I rarely see a coyote.  Sometimes I’ll spot them trotting across an open field, or at a distance crossing the road at night.  There was an autumn morning, years ago, as I ran between cornfields, when one appeared out of the old stalks, and stood at the edge of the road and watched me with his golden eyes.

I know the coyote’s reputation is not a shiny one.  They are predators, and so when people talk about them it is with annoyance, fear or anger.   They will attack pets or raid a chicken coop or rabbit hutch.  It is the reality of our little patch of civilization living in the midst of the last of wildness here.

We become so accustomed to being at the top of the food chain and controlling our environment that it is jarring to think something is wandering around just feet from us that kills things to survive.  I would guess that not many of us strolling the aisles of Kroger or sitting in front of an endless queue of Netflix choices gives the coyote’s lifestyle much consideration.  I’ll admit I don’t.

Except when he reminds me he is there.  His keening in the middle of the night not only woke me up, but awakened me.  

As beautiful and compelling as his call was, it is the response of the pack that is truly incredible.  They are a choir, full throated, harmonious even in the rawness of the sound.  They are saying ‘We are here, come join us.’ 

 In winter the coyote seeks romance, and some of the songs I hear at night is that exchange.  The music these animals send to each other is the beginning of what will be passion between two beings.  It is a beauty that is hidden from us, of course, but even so they share it with the world in the music of the dark.

The other sound the pack makes is what I can only describe as laughter.  I’ve tried to tell people about this but cannot do it justice.  It is not barking or yapping or howling, it is a sound they make together, a wild delight, an expression of life.  Even as I am writing these words I am smiling, and a little envious.  

In between chapters of sleep, I turned on my pillow and looked out into the winter night and listened to these animals create a gift for the world.  I wasn’t thinking about them being dangerous or an interference in my well bordered life.  I thought how lucky I was to be alive and awake to hear their composition.

In his book ‘Call of the Wild’, Jack London listens to the wolf’s howls in the forest; ‘.. as he sings a song of the younger world.’  Along with the unfettered delight in hearing the composition the coyote creates, I also feel this connection to the primal, the thread that leads back to the beginning of beginnings.  

It is in the swirl of starlings, the bounding of fawns, the sway of the tree, the whisper of wind on wheat, the gentle chuckle of water over stones.  And in this silver sliver of sound on a winter night, this song of loneliness and of intimacy, as old as nature’s purpose.

Hope this finds you calling for your pack,

David 

Copyright © 2021 David Smith