There is a new presence in the woods north of the homestead. A group of coyotes have taken up temporary residence as they move about their territory.

The first sign that they had moved in was that our old yellow cat, a stray who was passing by some three years ago and stayed for the daily feedings, has started spending nights in the rafters of the back porch rather than prowling his “domain.”

We can hear the yelping of pups, a bit early in the season for coyotes, which might indicate the the they are actually “coydogs,” the mother being one of the hundreds of stray dogs that roam this area courtesy of the “city folk” who mistake abandonment for kindness, thinking that the “country folk” will always welcome a few extra cats and dogs that are no longer wanted in town as pets.

The yelping has subsided and the only sound now in my darkened bedroom is from the clock on the wall from which time is relentlessly rushing, second by second, toward an unseen precipice, to fall headlong into the abyss and lie at the bottom, a pool of no longer usable moments.

And then that other keeper of time, the alarming one, signals midnight, time to rise and prepare to trade structured bits of time for monetary gain and a measure of temporary control over the necessities of life.

And the beat goes on. Relentlessly