Coyotes in the Kitchen

In contrast to the crash and burn of our summer evenings, Rich and I find ourselves awake in the twilight hours this time of the year. Whether we are reading or writing from within a nest of blankets, indulging in Sailing La Vagabonde (the number one reason for turning on our TV), spitballing ideas for the spring, or debriefing on the kids' latest things, we have enough energy in our tanks to pretend to be night owls. But it almost feels wrong to be awake at the hour the creatures of the night stir...like we shouldn't know what happens after the sun goes down. Poe's "Once upon a midnight dreary(...)" enters into my head and any of those bumps in the night that I hear somewhere in the expanse of land between ourselves and our neighbors have me pulling the blanket tighter around myself.
And once upon a midnight dreary, as I lay in the lowered light of the lamp in our living room, my eyes starting to blur the lines on my page, an uproar of yips rang out from the farmhouse kitchen. My mind was called out of that limbo between wake and sleep and into fight or flight mode and I jumped to my feet. Stumbling into Jack's room, I found him standing bolt upright in his crib in a panic. Our eyes turned toward the western wall of Jack's room, beyond which a pack of yipping coyotes ran off into the distance. Jack, whose room abuts the kitchen has been conditioned to sleep through most sounds. But that innate animal sense that we all have somewhere inside had shaken him to wakefulness. Such a little buck wouldn't stand a chance if he was on the other side of that wall with that hungry pack.
Since we've lived here, I've not heard the coyotes so close to the house. They must have run right across the driveway, either communicating their territory to another group or just excited for the hunt. When night falls, we retreat inside, bring Mel dog the brave with us, and close the doors to allow all those creatures of the night to have their way with this land. With electricity pulsing through the sheep's fencing and our doors shut tight, we let the wild of night alone.
Somehow Jack and I, the hardest sleepers in the house, were the only two to hear the magical brouhaha of the coyotes. We settled our racing hearts with a book and a song and I wondered what else we miss while we sleep. It belongs to the night.