The other night, as I crawled into bed, T asked me if I had forgotten to turn off the lights.
“You turned them off,” I said worriedly. “Just a few minutes ago”.
“I know I did, but they are back on again” was his reply.
I put on my glasses – they aren’t really necessary for me to distinguish light and darkness, although I’m sure that there are others in this vast world who understand that some of us can’t think if we can’t see — and looked out the window.
“That isn’t the outside lights! It’s the moon!” I couldn’t laugh too hard, because I did the same thing last month.
The moon was so bright that night that is was as if the heavens were shining a search light directly down on my house. As it neared 2am and the moon was almost overhead, I heard footsteps softly, slowly, stalking underneath the bedroom windows. Every few steps, the sound would stop. In the distance I heard a low, sustained noise. At first it was far off and I wondered if it was an owl hooting. As it came closer, the mournful baying was more distinguishable as a howl.
Suddenly, the voice of the footsteps beneath the windows replied. There was an attack, a skirmish of some sort. The bodies stayed in the shadows so I couldn’t see the perpetrators — or their victim.
Who knew that chipmunks made such a noise when in the jowls of a coyote?