tucked up under her, her right stretched out in front. The stillness settles around her. Gradually she becomes aware of insects buzzing. The twittering of birds. And there is something else, something that isnât quite a sound. It is more like a vibration, as if the pine grove and the woods beyond are breathing in time with her breath.
What you hear depends on how you listen . The thought appears in her mind and hovers there, like a hummingbird at the feeders her mother used to put out. What you hear depends on how you listen . She sits as still as she can, aware of the birds, the insects, the breathing of the woods. Her eyes focus on the feathery branches of a cedar on the other side of the knoll, then on the thick-plated bark of a pine. There is a quick glimmer of silver light. She shifts her focus and sees a fine line of gossamer trailing across the clearing. One of the lines of web a spider stick catches, she thinks. The kind she canât see. Maybe she has not been looking the right way.
She doesnât know how long she stays, drifting in the stillness, before the shrill voice of a blue jay in the top of a nearby tree jolts her back to herself.
Where is Coyote? She whistles once, then again. Will he find her here, in this place theyâve never come to before, or will he expect her to be on the trail somewhere, heading home? She doesnât want to move yet, doesnât want to leave this place. She will wait for a while and see if he will come.
Where is he? she wonders again. What is he doing? She closes her eyes, and an image forms of him sniffing around the base of a tree stump, scenting something burrowed underneath. He digs with his front paws, throwing clots of red clay out behind him. When he canât get to the animal he is after, he sets off, trotting through the woods, ducking under bushes and jumping over fallen trees. Then she imagines him stopping, ears and nose twitching. He has caught the scent of a deer. There are plenty of deer in the woods, Charley knows, though they arenât very often seen in the daytime. Sometimes at dusk they come out under the power lines or into the field near Eagle Lakeâs stone gates. From time to time she has noticed hoofprints in the mud by the ponds.
Now she sees a pair of deer, a doe and a young buck, leaping up from where they have been sheltering in a hollow beneath a fallen tree. They leap away, and Coyote takes off after them, becoming a golden blur, running and jumping and swerving among the trees. They splash through a creek and up the bank on the other side, Coyote behind them. Then they angle to the left, and Coyote cuts across a small clearing, closing the distance between them. He leaps at the one that is lagging slightly behind, and it kicks, its hoof catching Coyote across the bridge of his nose. Coyote yelps and stops as the deer goes on, bounding over a fallen pine tree and disappearing into the brush. Panting hard, Coyote watches it go. There is a sharp, curved line of blood across his nose where the deerâs hoof connected.
Charley shakes her head and opens her eyes. Wherever Coyote is, it is time to start back. Her legs are stiff, and she can feel where the bark of the pine tree sheâs been leaning against has left a pattern on her back. She pushes herself to her feet, stretches her arms over her head, circles her shoulders a couple of times, and heads down the hill into the sandy clearing, holding to the trees to slow her progress. She will be coming back to the Pine Grove, she thinks. It is a perfect place to rest while Coyote does whatever he does in the woods.
The sun is hotter than ever out on the trail, and she is eager to get home and change out of her jeans. From time to time as she walks, she whistles for Coyote. The blackberries are almost gone now, but she snatches a late one and pops it into her mouth. It is dry and hot and not good. She has just passed the cutoff to the lake trail when Coyote comes down out of
What you hear depends on how you listen . The thought appears in her mind and hovers there, like a hummingbird at the feeders her mother used to put out. What you hear depends on how you listen . She sits as still as she can, aware of the birds, the insects, the breathing of the woods. Her eyes focus on the feathery branches of a cedar on the other side of the knoll, then on the thick-plated bark of a pine. There is a quick glimmer of silver light. She shifts her focus and sees a fine line of gossamer trailing across the clearing. One of the lines of web a spider stick catches, she thinks. The kind she canât see. Maybe she has not been looking the right way.
She doesnât know how long she stays, drifting in the stillness, before the shrill voice of a blue jay in the top of a nearby tree jolts her back to herself.
Where is Coyote? She whistles once, then again. Will he find her here, in this place theyâve never come to before, or will he expect her to be on the trail somewhere, heading home? She doesnât want to move yet, doesnât want to leave this place. She will wait for a while and see if he will come.
Where is he? she wonders again. What is he doing? She closes her eyes, and an image forms of him sniffing around the base of a tree stump, scenting something burrowed underneath. He digs with his front paws, throwing clots of red clay out behind him. When he canât get to the animal he is after, he sets off, trotting through the woods, ducking under bushes and jumping over fallen trees. Then she imagines him stopping, ears and nose twitching. He has caught the scent of a deer. There are plenty of deer in the woods, Charley knows, though they arenât very often seen in the daytime. Sometimes at dusk they come out under the power lines or into the field near Eagle Lakeâs stone gates. From time to time she has noticed hoofprints in the mud by the ponds.
Now she sees a pair of deer, a doe and a young buck, leaping up from where they have been sheltering in a hollow beneath a fallen tree. They leap away, and Coyote takes off after them, becoming a golden blur, running and jumping and swerving among the trees. They splash through a creek and up the bank on the other side, Coyote behind them. Then they angle to the left, and Coyote cuts across a small clearing, closing the distance between them. He leaps at the one that is lagging slightly behind, and it kicks, its hoof catching Coyote across the bridge of his nose. Coyote yelps and stops as the deer goes on, bounding over a fallen pine tree and disappearing into the brush. Panting hard, Coyote watches it go. There is a sharp, curved line of blood across his nose where the deerâs hoof connected.
Charley shakes her head and opens her eyes. Wherever Coyote is, it is time to start back. Her legs are stiff, and she can feel where the bark of the pine tree sheâs been leaning against has left a pattern on her back. She pushes herself to her feet, stretches her arms over her head, circles her shoulders a couple of times, and heads down the hill into the sandy clearing, holding to the trees to slow her progress. She will be coming back to the Pine Grove, she thinks. It is a perfect place to rest while Coyote does whatever he does in the woods.
The sun is hotter than ever out on the trail, and she is eager to get home and change out of her jeans. From time to time as she walks, she whistles for Coyote. The blackberries are almost gone now, but she snatches a late one and pops it into her mouth. It is dry and hot and not good. She has just passed the cutoff to the lake trail when Coyote comes down out of
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