In the quiet mist of early morning, a lone coyote emerges from the tall grass and low brush near the fencerow, makes its way across the rows of corn stubble. The snow has melted, most of it leaching into the field. Where the drifts are deep, it seeps into the surface, meets saturation and then weeps along the ditch toward the river. The skies hang heavy and low, bringing sense of the coming day.

Turning west, the coyote trots parallel to the road, following the long row, across the bottom and up the slope toward the west ridge. The blended grays, blacks and whites of its fur move in slow motion blur against the orange tan of the stalks of corn, frayed ends burnt by winter.

Caught by some sound or scent beyond my sensing, she stops, ears and eyes frozen by sudden caution.

It is often in the sensing of the unseen that we preserve our souls.

H. Arnett
3/10/10