t was one of those magical moments that leaves you awestruck over the magnitude and simplicity of life here on earth, in the wilds of West Texas.
I was taking the dogs out for their nightly pee before turning in. It’s yet another one of those crystal clear, but a rare perfectly still, night here in the Davis Mountains. The sliver of moon has long passed below the horizon and the stars are so bright and close it’s like each one is shining directly down on you. Both dogs give a few perfunctory barks to let everyone know they are on the job.
It started about a mile up the canyon. A dozen or so coyotes all break into yapping and howling in unison, their cries echoing down the canyon to us. It was beautiful. Even the dogs stopped to listen to the call of the wild. Then as if a conductor had raised his left hand in cue, another group of coyotes about a mile away down the canyon on the mountainside starts their own chorus. Standing there outside on my back porch I had one chorus coming from my left, the other from my right; an orchestra in stereo. How I wished I would have had a recorder that could have captured it.
And then it was over. Just as abruptly and quickly as it started, both groups just — stopped.
And then it was just me, the dogs, and the stars.