It sounds like a good-sized pack, and not far. They could be as close as the island, just across Uncle Tim’s Bridge, or they could be over by Duck Creek. I have no intention of finding out. The sandy paths I walked this morning I wouldn’t dream of walking now. I know: attacks on humans are exceedingly rare. But I’m fine where I am and they’re fine where they are. Mutual respect is one thing. Stupidity is another. Besides, I wouldn’t want to interrupt the coyote high jinx, or communion, or consummation, or whatever it is they’re conjuring out there. Best listen from here, from the top of Whit’s Lane, well within the settlement, with its pavement, curbs, latch fences, sliding doors and the church ringing eight bells at midnight.
And its patrol cars. Not expecting any traffic at that hour, I had been standing in the middle of the road, aiming my camera down toward Commercial Street and the bridge that connects it to the island. I stepped aside. He slowed. I waved. He nodded, or at least I think it was a nod. In any case he kept going, having concluded I was harmless and that the jaywalking wasn’t actionable.
Earlier, a Cavalier Prince King Charles Spaniel by the name of Owen had alerted me to the presence of coyotes by suddenly becoming airborne, landing in my lap, and giving me a look that said “Please, please don’t let them eat me”. I hadn’t heard what he heard, but then Owen’s ear is more keenly attuned to the vocalizations of his distant, antimonarchist kin. Once I had figured out the cause of his sudden affection, and eager to investigate, I removed him from my lap, put on my coat and boots, grabbed my camera and headed for the door. Owen eyed me from his throne, the couch, with a look that said both “Have you lost your mind?” and “How could you betray Us like this?” But out I went anyway. I wanted to hear the coyotes.
I have not been disappointed. They’re in full crescendo: yipping, yelping, and howling. They seem to be announcing a kind of dominion (if not rule) over the night and the otherwise silent town. In those sounds, which are not cacophony, I hear the loneliness of animals. But I also hear purpose, defiance and nobility. We’re not going anywhere. There will never be a time when we are not here, surviving.
Their voices rise out of the darkness, speak through it. I don’t mean this in any metaphorical sense. I mean that from my point of view here at the top of Whit’s Lane, their voices are of a piece with the night, a darkness without relief or depth. I mean that their voices do not originate from any place that I can see, and what I can see is confined to the light of two street lamps. Where that light gives out, their realm begins.
Yup, brings to mind Dave Carter's "Love, The Magician". ;)
I've seen (and heard them yipping and shrieking) foxes (the four legged, canine variety) right outside my window at night, but no coyotes around here.
Is this in Utah, or some other Duck Creek?
By the way, I enjoyed your conversation on "Back Catalog Listening Party". Your story abour your guitar lesson in NYC reminded me of my first lessons in Trenton, NJ with Tom Gildorf who played a fat Gretsch single cutaway jazz box.
Regards,
Tom Stackhouse (TangoGolfSierrra)