As development continues to slash and burn my wooded community, coyotes make their presence known for the first and last time. Without a home, no longer hidden within the depths of the tall pines. Wild dogs race past my house, conversing in high pitches along the way. Dead trees mingle with bulldozers as a smoky haze thickens the air. It seems, these days, I am without a voice, and after having confronted corporate monkeys and overpaid big wigs in an effort to sustain physical sanity, I gave up after my first defeat. Failure follows, and my passion in paying the price along with the retreating coyotes. Development spreads like terrorism across this land leaving abandoned supercenters in its wake. The sound of coyotes reminded me of laughter when I was in Yellowstone, but tonight, when I heard that same sound, my interpretation was just the opposite – they are cynical and sad and tired of running. The voices of the coyotes failed to make a difference just as mine did. We are city folk against our will, annexed and bound by location.
January 17, 2006