Something in the predawn brought to life coyotes in the ravine below my house. A half-dozen or more of them erupted into a chorus of howls, yips, and cries.
The howling of the coyotes immediately
drew me outside to the back deck. I have
not heard them like this in more than twenty years. When I first moved out here to the country, I
was surrounded by coyotes. At night,
they cried out whenever a low-flying plane overflew them.
I stood under a full canopy of
stars trying to understand what the coyotes were saying. The coyote song is ancient, but I still fail
to fully comprehend it.
While the cries of so many coyotes
in shrill refrain might frighten some people, I found myself in perfect calm. I have no immediate beef with coyotes. I listened to the chorus of cries until the
coyotes, one by one, lapsed into silence.
This is where I live—a calm
place between coyotes crying in the ravine below me and the unwavering gallery
of stars above me.
—Mitchell Hegman
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