Greetings, writers—
The wildlife sightings continue. This morning I saw a coyote on my neighbor’s lawn, and you guys, it was partying. It kept rubbing its cheeks along the grass, then straightening up and spinning in circles, and then bending down to sniff and rub again, bushy tail wagging.
I stepped onto my porch. It was a little after five, still dark and foggy out, and the air smelled like snow. The coyote lifted its head and started trotting along the sidewalk, in my direction but on the other side of the street. It stopped to sniff a clump of ornamental grass and wipe both its cheeks along the blades. I heard a melodic, high-pitched sound—not a yapping or a whining, almost more like a chirping—and saw another coyote coming up from behind, calling to the first one.
Single-file, they turned right at the stop sign. I went down to the sidewalk to see where they were going, but they’d already vanished.
When I went back inside, I kept looking out the window, and it didn’t take too long before I saw a coyote—the second, smaller one—strolling north toward Hawthorne Boulevard. A few minutes later, I saw the big one in the middle of my street, heading south.
I live in inner Southeast Portland, and these are not the first coyotes I’ve seen in this neighborhood. They are, though, the most coyote. I felt shot through with adrenaline, with wonder. I’d just been sitting there, drinking my coffee, when wildness made its way up my block.
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