Last night, for the third time in my twenty-one
years of living out here in the country, I heard the screaming outside my open
window. The screams sprang from
someplace in the scattered timber down at the bottom of the arroyo below my
house.
The screaming woke me.
What is the screaming thing?
Curled in my bed, I listened to the piercing sound
repeating in quick bursts. Not
barking. Not growling. Not bleating.
Not yowling.
Close to a wailing.
Then thick silence.
Mountain lion?
Porcupine? Big? Small?
What is the screaming thing?
--Mitchell
Hegman
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