Coyote Beauty

by Tom Shafer

July 21, 2018

So last evening, like most evenings, I slipped into my hot tub around 2 a.m., French horning (trumpets are just too loud at 2 a.m.) another successful day of living.  Now, some of you may be wondering why in the name of Hades I was still awake at 2 a.m.  Suffice it to say, sleeping is not one of my better skill sets.  Where some people are terrible at their jobs or Scrabble or relationships (President Trump?), I am terrible at sleeping.  But that is a topic for another day, so back to my hot tub.

While I was sitting there allowing the warm, bubbling goodness to permeate the pores of my epidermis (and after several more minutes my dermis and hypodermis), I heard the yipping calls of my four-legged neighbors, the coyotes.  Because I live in the middle of farm country, coyotes are a normal part of our existence and can be heard yelping on any given evening.  In fact, here, we have two competing bands of coyotes, one that lives south along the Little Miami River and another that resides to the east on a wooded hillside that once appled Orchard Lane Farm (older readers — and this writer — may have done some picking there).  Usually, one band will break into its hip hop serenade, and the other will either join in or compete for nighttime supremacy — Beavercreek Township’s Coyote Idol.  However, last night was different; a third band joined in, one vocalizing from somewhere north of my home.  For ten minutes, this triumvirate of coyote crooners collided contentiously, taking turns with their yips and yaps, occasionally joining in unison for one magnificent “barbaric yawp” (thanks R.W. Emerson!).  Then, as suddenly as it had started, the concert crescendoed with a deafening silence.  The air that had been so alive and dynamic was suddenly inert and still. I sat motionless, listening intently for a warble or howl, but none came.  The performance had ended — and oh so dramatically!

I have to admit that my sleeplessness has provided many such moments over the past several years, including the four years I have lived here: a vixen fox and her two kits playing in the backyard every night for several weeks in a row; young deer batting bird feeders with their antlers and paws, knocking seed to the ground to eat; three baby raccoons climbing on top of the hot tub cover to check me out; numerous meteor showers or singular “shooting stars”; two faint (but still exhilarating) sightings of the aurora borealis (northern lights).  Trust me, I’d rather be a normal sleeper, but the trade-off isn’t too shabby.

So tonight, unless it’s raining, I will return to my nocturnal routine — slide into the hot tub at two, climb out after twenty minutes or so, slip quietly into bed and read until slumber creeps into my loud and churning brain (sometimes like Metallica’s “Enter Sandman”!).  Of course, I will rise as always at 7:15 to lethargy, a brightening sky, and one screaming cat.  Oh, and hopefully to the memory of another performance of the Cacophonous Coyote Chorale.

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