According to a National Geographic documentary I watched, the term coywolf is being used as a casual name for the Eastern Coyote which has been scientifically proven to be a hybrid between a coyote and a wolf. They are larger than coyotes and smaller than wolves. Unlike coyotes, they can take down large prey such as deer.
I set up my Bushnell camera with its motion sensor after I saw three stunningly gorgeous coywolves on the other side of our pond from where I was stationed late one afternoon a couple of weeks ago. Two of them appeared to be larger than a German Shepherd. In the photo above and in other photos I have, it looks like the camera caught the smaller one of the group with the motion sensor on several evenings over the course of the week after I saw the group of coywolves. It’s still large enough to be a powerful animal. I’ll keep my distance.
There will hopefully be future posts about these beautiful creatures that have decided to live on our farm. Stay tuned.
Sundays at the Monteleon
she tells me about Tarzan
1957 – she met the oldest living one
later at the Absinthe House she met another
based on this, she is convinced
all actors who portray Tarzan are nice men
in the background, a banjo player
singing like Satchmo
a clarinet player
a stand up bass
via Ello | photovotary.
Farmhouse at night; winter 2014
That night my husband and I wanted to traipse through the snow in the nearly full moon’s ghost-light coming from the east. I perched my camera onto its tripod, opened the shutter wide and long (2 seconds), and hoped for the best. This is the unretouched image that resulted. I was pretty happy with it.
We cannot escape the pull of the gravity without great effort. We are pulled and pushed by forces of nature, forces we do not understand fully. We must try to maintain our balance at all times. For now, I hold on, not sure which direction is the right one.
This pond vibrates a gentle hum
while I approach, brimming with water.
Frogs grumble in agreement
while the sinking sun slips silently;
a wary deer riffs a dressage
through still-dry grass crackling
crunching last autumn’s detritus,
unsure of me—if I’m there or where
aware of herself and sure I am near.
She stomps a cautious passepied
punctuated by huffs and snorts,
in four-direction demonstration.
Frogs grown silent pick up again,
a softer, longer yeaahhhh.
Birds lull low in the dimming light.
A fish smacks one last snack.
I came to cry, but forgot.