My Evening Visitors

Late afternoon-early evening. I had wandered up the hill west of the house and settled into the scrub to take in the view of Spanish Springs Valley. It hadn’t always looked like this—so crowded, so filled in. Once, there had been more open land than rooftops.

Somewhere nearby, I heard the sharp yips of coyotes.

Unconcerned, they don’t usually bother with people. But within minutes, four—maybe five—of them appeared, silent and sure-footed, approaching from the brush.

My pulse quickened as they circled, sniffing the air, sniffing me. I stayed still, not daring to move. I figured any sudden gesture might startle them—and I didn’t care to get bit.

But after a moment’s cautious inspection, they settled. One sat beside me, another just ahead, and the rest lingered on the edges. Together, we watched the lights in the valley come on, one by one, as dusk wrapped the world in shadow.

Then, as quietly as they’d come, the coyotes rose and slipped away, vanishing into the deepening night.

I stood up slowly, legs stiff, back aching. Then I walked home, the hillside behind me, and something wild flickered beneath my skin.