Journal: Entry for Gaps

It was then that people began to fear the packs of coyotes that wandered through the hills, flowing like murmurations across fields of alfalfa and clover. We walked down to the creek only on the brightest of summer days, our shoulder blades pinched, our heads jerking at any noise. When men came through town they spoke of other wandering packs, whole groups of young men and boys in beat-up pickup trucks, tearing though towns like vikings, unperturbed by forgotten laws or social norms. I dreamt of those boys, sometimes, parking their trucks by apple orchards and lounging in the sun, their arms brown and their hair long. I felt safer, at night, and sometimes would walk down to the pond behind our old farmhouse, sitting on a grassy hill and watching the small stream that ran into the dark water, the overhanging branches of trees that had fallen during winter storms, and the backs of snapping turtles blinking beneath the water. Sometimes bristly raccoons would sit at the edge of the pond, fishing for tadpoles, snails, or the pale legs of frogs. They watched the edges of the water for any ripple or flush of movement, and, if I was too quiet - if I grew afraid at the sound of a cracking branch - they might stand up on two legs, grasping a wriggling form, and look into the darkness.