The Coyote's Song

The sun dipped low, painting the western sky in hues of bruised plum and fading rose. A chill, tinged with the scent of pine and damp earth, began to creep into the air. I sat on a worn, sun-bleached log at the edge of the woods, the last poem still a warm ember in my hands. "Beneath the Bison's Hoof" had felt like a triumph, a thundering affirmation of the raw power I’d felt surging through me. Yet, as the light softened and the world quieted, a different sound began to weave its way into the stillness.

It started as a faint, mournful howl, a lonely thread pulled taut against the vast canvas of twilight. Then another joined, and another, until a chorus of voices, each distinct yet harmonizing in their shared wildness, filled the air. The coyotes. Their song was not the triumphant roar of the bison or the soaring cry of the eagle. It was something quieter, more introspective, a melody woven from solitude and survival.

I’d always heard them, of course. Their calls were as much a part of the wilderness as the rustling leaves or the babbling brook. But tonight, listening with a poet’s ear, their song felt different. It spoke of long nights under a million stars, of the quiet hunt, of the resilience required to carve a life out of an often unforgiving landscape. It was a song of being alone, but not necessarily lonely. It was a testament to the strength found in one’s own company.