It’s 9 at night. I’m outside, glass of wine in hand, watching the sky go from pink to indigo. At first, I indulge in a few minutes of sitting in the orchard, watching the sky, watching the dog run his crazy circles despite his bad knee, listening to the evening birds. Then I stroll around the front part of the property, looking at what’s been done, what needs to be done, thinking about possibilities. I am enjoying the peace to simply think.
And then I hear the coyotes. And they are close. And the peace ends.
I will never, ever get used to the sound of coyotes howling at night as a pack. Ever since I moved to the boonies three years ago, the sound has only sent goosebumps up my spine and down my arms. I still vividly remember the first time, home alone in the rental, snuggled under my covers, wishing it would stop. I hate it. I don’t hate coyotes, I admire them. But that pack howling that they do, with every age chiming in, young and old, oh, it’s awful. That I hate.
Knowing the chickens are all safe, I finished my wine and promptly went in search of cats. Two of the buggers won’t come in. I will try again later. For now, I just want the chills to stop.
*Disclaimer: That’s not my sky in the photo. I was enjoying the sunset and thinking “I should take a picture,” but I didn’t. And then it got dark. And then the coyotes started. So that’s a stock photo. I know you’ll understand. Or…you would if you could hear the coyotes!