The Coyote

The coyote two-stepped across the knoll, her dark lithe body visible in the dusk. She was a big animal, large-dog sized.

I had heard the coyotes howling late in the evening the night before, a lonesome spine-tingling moan that made me shiver.

We had been to check the cows because the bawling from one had reached us across the evening quiet. An escape attempt by the animals earlier that day had probably resulted in a mix-up between a momma and a calf, we thought, so we hopped in the truck to make it right.

The coyote was a long way off; that is how we knew she was big. She was easy to see, dancing there, moving about the newly mown field.  Chasing a mouse, perhaps.  We eased the truck to a stop and killed the engine.

Before us, the alfalfa field was filled with deer.  A doe with a fawn.  A small buck with the velvet covering his antlers, making the little prongs look huge. We had enough daylight to make out the details. I could still see the spots on the little fawn. It and the coyote looked to be the same size.

Darkness was falling quickly. My husband considered taking a shot at the coyote. We’d lost a newborn calf a few weeks ago. A coyote seemed as likely a culprit as vultures. My Audubon book says they eat small mammals; newborn calves would qualify.

But he lost the shot as the twilight grew heavy and the night fell closer. His gun echoed across the farm as he missed. The coyote took off, as did the deer, their white tails waving goodbye to us as they jumped a fence and raced for the woods. I pulled my hands from my ears.

One thousand and one fireflies blinked around me, their light twinkling like stars fallen from the sky. In the distance, the train going toward the cement plant raced clackety-clack over the rails, and then her whistle let out a long moan. Unlike the coyote’s call, the train’s howl left me feeling sad, not shaken.

The night was alive with sound, now. Tree frogs, crickets.  Not long after the gunshot blast, I heard a faint “who-who” as an owl called from far away. Tires from a truck on the road behind us hummed a tuneless song that crescendoed as the vehicle sped by.

My husband turned the key to start the truck and take us back home. Once there, I sat out on the deck and lulled the night to silence with my guitar. I let the last note of Scarborough Fair linger, its sound meshing in with the calls of the frogs, and then surprisingly, the howl of a coyote.

 

A version of this was published in 2004 in The Fincastle Herald.