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To dwellers in a wood almost every species of tree has its voice as well as its feature. At the passing of the breeze the fir-trees sob and moan no less distinctly than they rock; the holly whistles as it battles with itself; the ash hisses amid its quiverings; the beech rustles while its flat boughs rise and fall.

-Thomas Hardy, Under the Greenwood Tree, courtesy of litquotes.com

I have been delving deep into Nature’s world, and I think that this will help me to get into the mind of the coyote.  I shall learn to see things from his point of view, to smell things as he smells them, and to feel things as he feels them.

I swam in the pond. (“No, Humphrey, no!  Now you need a bath!”)

I drank from the stream, and not the mannerly, dog-way, but coyote fashion, standing in the stream.   (“No, Humphrey!  Well, OK.  You needed a bath anyway.”)

I ran through the woods, feeling the breeze in my ears (so I flattened them against my head).  I careened madly through the trees, cornering smoothly and only occasionally tripping (on purpose, to keep Woman and Man on their toes).  I learned to smell scents on the move and to listen to the minutest sound on the breeze.  Perhaps I’ll be able to go undercover: be the coyote, be the coyote…

When I returned home, to the slightly more urban suburban area where I and my people reside, it at first seemed a bit harder to maintain that feeling of my inner coyote.  Nature is a little less prominent, a little less present, but I looked out over my neighborhood (where I reign supreme, but am a benign and beloved presence) and I closed my eyes and opened my ears, my nose and my heart, and felt Nature’s presence, even there.

He lowered the window, and looked out at the rising sun. There was a ridge of ploughed land, with a plough upon it where it had been left last night when the horses were unyoked; beyond, a quiet coppice-wood, in which many leaves of burning red and golden yellow still remained upon the trees. Though the earth was cold and wet, the sky was clear, and the sun rose bright, placid, and beautiful.

-Charles Dickens, A Tale of Two Cities, courtesy of litquotes.com