By Kelsey E. Moore

December 28, 2015


On the porch, under a Blood Moon, our fire is dying down, so we wear wool blankets over our shoulders. We’re drinking cider warmed in a pan on the stove, splashed into mugs with whiskey. This cold is still new, still exhilarating; the season is shifting, like the roll of a wave against your body.

Out across the salt marsh, somewhere deep in the pines, the coyotes begin to howl. It is a sound that is hard not to love, even as it ripples through you, awakening a fear that sleeps at the base of your spine. There are four or five distinct voices: howls, snarls, sharp yips that carry across the flattened tidal grasses. Our laughter dies down, and we draw closer, closer to the fire.

The coyotes grow louder, more insistent.

Someone says—They’ve got something.

And she is right, because then the high, keening cry of the deer rises from the trees, floats toward us. Death cry, hunger, woodsmoke.

The air snaps; the deer is silenced. The dogs gorge themselves, eat to live another day. One long victory howl soars above us, like a portent, like thanksgiving. 


Photo "Full Moon" provided by Rachel Kramer via Flickr Creative Commons license (photo cropped to square).

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