ADVENTURES ON EARTH: STALKED BY A COYOTE
Coyote Gaze
This painting is available
Note: I am trying to get used to using ki/kin pronouns for nature beings—plants, bugs and animals. Maybe mountains and rivers. I agree with writer Robin Wall Kimmerer: “Calling the natural world “it” absolves us of moral responsibility and opens the door to exploitation.” She suggests a new language of animacy.
The coyote trotted across the road just ahead of me, at the edge of the housing development. How did the animal not hear my squeaking shoes as I trudged up the hill?
Ki crossed the field where trees downed by snow still lay matchsticked in the grass. At the far edge of the field ki turned and looked at me.
Ki was a gorgeous animal, straight slender legs, solid body, a fully grown adult. Ki’s heavy winter coat glowed golden and russet in the gloaming. Ears shaped like petals swiveled towards me as ki made eye contact.
This animal was interested. In me.
Ki locked his yellow eyes on me. Head down, ki scented the air, tip-toed towards me in that slow, stiff-legged way canids stalk prey.
Being considered prey by a such a beautiful creature is a watery feeling, emotions mixing like salt water and fresh. Part of me was hypnotized by ki’s beauty, thrilled to even be considered part of ki’s world. Part of me was very nervous.
But not terrified. Not yet. The coyote was still a good 300 feet away from me, but that was a small gap for an animal who can clock 30 mph on a dead run. I raised my arms. Ki stopped.
For a long moment we stared at each other. Each of us immersed in a culture alien to the other, our responses shaped by history, genes, and hunger, beauty and fear in one distinct, isolated, sharpened moment.
A pack of coyotes live in the valley below our house. At night they sometimes sing, a thin high aria held for two or three bars until it breaks into a chorus of yips, yammers, and howls. I’ve heard coyotes sing after a kill. I try not to judge; coyotes need to eat, and prey animals support the pack with their lives. The songs thrill me while they give me chills.
Ki tip-toed a little closer. Was that curiosity in ki’s eyes? Hunger? I’m not narcissistic enough to think the coyote wanted to be my friend, and I was not ready to be a meal, not just now. I raised my arms and shouted “hey!” and ki spun away, ran to the forest edge, turned, gazed at me one more time, and trotted into the trees.
I sang loudly as I walked home, show tunes and pop music, swinging my arms wildly and keeping time with my squeaking shoes until I came to a more populated part of the neighborhood.
Winter through spring the coyote pack in the valley sings nearly every night, joyful over kills, mating, family, the moon. I don’t know why kin sing. I just know that I’m honored to hear the music, and relieved to be safe in my house.
