Zeke and I often go out for a walk after dark. On moonless or cloud filled nights the blackness is nearly infinite and I navigate by feel of road beneath bare feet or jingle of dog collar somewhere up ahead and to the right. Eyes start grasping for meaning and a seemingly darker part of the night takes on shape or swallows it. Our black cat Smudge (all three of our pets are black), three legged for the past two years, will sometimes join our walks, unannounced and somewhat unnerving as he rubs against a bare leg while I stop to listen and grope with desperate senses.

Tonight the walk called us out early and we headed into the draining light of the day dimmed down to velvet blue and azure. The quarter moon hung slightly west of due south and stars seemed to forcibly push through the remaining light. Easy walking and cool pavement underfoot with the comforting ambience of crickets. Not even a block away from our house, as Zeke sniffed the ditch and renewed faded markings, the night gave way to the mournful sounds of howling to the north. The classic howl at the moon in a long, strong voice I have never heard in these parts.

It must have been a week, maybe two, that I spotted the coyote crossing in front of me as I drove by the field north of our house. This has been an active area this year as I've discovered a Pileated woodpecker's nest, seen a bob or fischer cat, daily sightings of a small herd of deer, and now the coyote. It was a beautiful animal, trim and neat with an array of brown and light colorings. At first I stared and wondered what type of dog it might be, but no collar had ever trapped that neck and it moved with a confidence and surety that no human domesticated animal will have.

Until tonight I hadn't given it much thought. Yet as the call filled the air I signalled to Zeke and we headed back towards our house, around the corner, and up towards the field where I had seen the coyote. There were a few short calls while we made our way and then silence as we approached the edge of the field and sat to listen. Nothing but crickets and Zeke nosing my arm, snuffling in an attempt to get us walking again. Finally a deep, resonant if not craggy voice crooned out from the opposite side of the field followed up by what sounded like younger, less melodic companions. I tried a quick bay, pathetic really, and no one felt it deserved an answer. Zeke continued to nose my arm so I told him to "sing the blues" (an old trick I once tried to teach him) and he obliged with a rather joyfull sounding Muddy Waters. The calls started up, maybe even joined in but then quickly subsided.

We walked the rest of the length of field, to the point where the coyote and fischer cat had crossed, but no more sounds to be heard and darkness was winning the sky.

Back at the house I stood on our back porch which faces the field, a row of trees barring direct sight, and stared into the night sky, listening. Smudge joined me in search of a scratch and as he did the deep resonant voice commanded the night again, this time with a full song that was quickly joined by the tenors and eventually the mezzo soprano pups. In movies you hear the lonesome call of one or two in a long drawn out duet to the moon. Not so tonight. The gang, and it truly sounded like a family or two, let loose in a full cacophony of bays and yips and howls and piercing yaps that defied even the most progressive Jazz in making sense or rhythm. It was like a Christmas sing-along where everyone pitches in, from toddler to teetotaller, and the comfort comes from shared experience and not musical mastery. The coyote gang called out their end of the day and Smudge and I listened, me reminding him that he'd make a good snack for any member of the opera.

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