The Abduction of the Coyote

In January of last year, four wildlife rescue organizations coordinated to catch a sick half-grown coyote who had been finding refuge under my porch.  Coyotes are a protected species in Massachusetts, so before attempting a rescue, they had to get permission from the state.  The day that they finally received permission, he disappeared.  The temperature dropped to the teens, and we watched the forecast with growing alarm, worried we had missed our chance and he had frozen to death in a hole in the woods somewhere.  Finally he reappeared.  I saw his feet go by under the porch, and texted the team.  Within thirty minutes, six people arrived and made a whispered plan to surround the porch from all sides.  Armed with old comforters and sheets of siding we ran in from three directions and blocked off his exits, while other volunteers grappled for him with a catch pole through a basement window.  After several tense minutes, with only the sounds of his panicked breathing, the indoor team hauled him through the window and into my cellar, head first.  Everyone agreed that if we hadn't gotten him that day, he wouldn't have made it.  

He was suffering from secondary rodenticide poisoning.  At some point in his short life, he had already eaten enough poisoned field mice or rats to be dying of poisoning himself.  He was hypothermic, dehydrated, his blood wouldn't clot, and with his immune system nearly non-existent he was almost hairless from an overgrowth in the mites, bacteria, and fungi that are normally a natural and balanced part of the skin biome.  He was probably under my porch because there was a little warmth coming through the foundation, ignoring his instinct to avoid humans because he was so desperately cold.  After three months of specialist care, he was healthy enough to be released to the wild again.  

Because coyotes are social animals, and frequently use common trails, it's very probable that members of his family passed by my house in the days after his capture and read the story in the scents on scuffed leaves and churned snow.  Thanks to Newhouse Wildlife, Friends of Horn Pond, Cape Ann Wildlife, and Berkshire Wildlife for all their work to advocate for him, to catch him, and to heal him for a return to the woods of New England.  

Rage forest daughter;

Stand and sing.

He is everywhere, a scent on snow.

He is the unforgiven air.

He is the curled leaves.

He is everything.

He will come back changed.

He will come back again.  

The lost child returns in spring,

Traveling over dark water;

Stand and mourn forest daughter.

First of all, I'm the dog whisperer. It breaks my heart to read the backstory of your piece, but thankfully he at least has a chance because of all your and the teams' work. All variations of canines have my heart, and the words you gave us resonate loudly within me. You could of just "not cared", but there's too much of that in the world, and it makes me happy that you chose to pursue the path of effort in helping this poor creature return to safety in the wild. 

Now that my eyes are dry (lol), onto the music. I don't know much about choral writing, but I have some thoughts. For one, I'm a little sad to hear midi... haven't you made videos where you're singing all the parts? Perhaps for a future time 😄 

I love all the dissonance created by 2nds. Some where treated as suspensions, but others seemed to be used for color. It seemed very impressionable with the content you wrote about. I also really love the lyrics, especially this: 

"He is everywhere, a scent on snow. He is the unforgiven air. He is the curled leaves. He is everything".

I've lived all over the country, and my dad was the man that taught me about the outdoors. I lived in Alaska, and have had many encounters with wolves. It's always surreal, and there's a great deal of respect I have for them, for how they are one with nature and their environment. As dumb as this sounds, I've learned from them too, and your words reflect a great deal of wisdom and admiration for the wild world around you. 

Your music is always lovely, thank you for sharing 

Thanks so much for taking a listen, Thatguy!  Because we live right on a coyote trail in between a few patches of woods, we see them frequently, usually late at night or early in the morning when we are coming and going with the dog.  They are absolutely amazing creatures.  After the dramatic rescue of this one, I had to call the team for another one later in the year who had been hit by a car and was hunkered down, hiding in a pile of raked leaves on the sidewalk.  She didn't make it unfortunately, but I'm glad they were able to get her to the vet and see what was possible.  

Yes, when I get a little time I'll sing all the parts.  Most people prefer to hear things actually sung, but it's quick to make the midis, so I thought I'd go ahead and get this one out there instead of waiting until I have time to do some recording.  

If you want a good coyote book, (a bit about wolves too), I recommend "Coyote America" by Dan Flores.  It's sort of a history of the United States told through the history of our interactions with coyotes.  Coyote stories from various American tribes, the history of early colonization and the expansion of white settlers into the West, the founding of the national parks, a long discomfort with any sort of wildness near our farms, ranches, and homes, and then increasing urbanization and the times in which we live now.  

I'm always amazed by interactions with wildlife when you actually pay attention.  Last summer my neighbor called me over in wonder and distress.  She had been pulling Virginia Creeper vines in her yard and had accidentally uncovered a gray catbird nest that she hadn't known was there.  She said the sound when she pulled the vine was a heart-wrenching shriek.  A few days later, I was pruning the Devil's Darning Needle vine that I run up my porch railing, and one of the catbirds flew over and sat in it a foot from my face and stared me down, while its mate made stressed little chirps from the bush with the nest fifteen feet away in the neighbor's yard.  I have never seen one even half that close before.  It literally could have hopped onto my hand.  It had just had a major family emergency involving a human pulling and trimming vines, and here was a different human, also trimming vines.  Not vines that affected it personally, but it was willing to get VERY close to me to see what I was doing and express its worry about my actions.  I mentally assured it that I wasn't going to go near its babies, and that neither would my neighbor if she had known they were there, and didn't breathe for a few minutes, and then quietly slipped back inside and let it have the yard to itself to calm down and consult with its family over the ordeal.