1.24.14 A Tromping We Shall Go

The winter evening approaches , the view in three directions of far off hills, towns, small cities . 
The sun begins its descent, as shades of orange and pink imbue the deep blue, lighter pale blue , and if you stand and gaze, a delicious teal rims the bright end of day.
Down in the lower field, I catch sight of the deep ravines, cutting through tall, steep hills; the view between all revealing the outwaters laid before me, where the duck and geese, fox and coyote do live.
The pup and I tromp down the steep field, pausing here to see where a mouse came above ground, with caution, to gather a few seeds for dinner, then without a step in any direction, wisely sent below ground once again .

We come to an old trail that connects with the marina some ways through the woods, and passes by enormous bridge ends somehow built with such large stone it is difficult for me to imagine how: silly me in this day and age, all knowledge of such things fled.
Here are the tracks of one large coyote and one tiny, so I imagine whoever took their semi-automatic to wildlife at midnight some weeks ago did not at least get the father and babe.
Though they should take care, as daytime hunting of coyote with semi-automatics IS legal by day, til March. 

Where a small quiet mouse emerged for a few moments, 

to gather some seeds, then wisely ran back beneath the earth

Not enough deer, so kill the coyote. Too many deer, so hunt the deer. Like a story to turn any which way one wishes.
As the pup races and leaps happily across the field, lapping and kicking up snow, I point out the coyote tracks so he shall know his neighbors . He comes over obediently to sniff and observe what I speak to him of.
I show him the back trail they use , and he sniffs, learning.
We reel round the lowest juncture of the aged field, once winter home to native peoples, and head back up the other side, the tops of each rise elegant in the fading light.
We pass by another traditional wildlife path that often is dominated, not legally due to conservation land, by young ones of my own species, in four-wheelers come summer, snow mobiles in winter.
But the raucous nightly activity has been strangely absent since the rat a tat tat that night weeks ago. 

The land left to its own devices, the coyotes bringing their kill to the trail's head . 

Down toward the stream and ravine stretch the tiny young cub' sprints, alongside the large ones of the father , and my pup, approaching 70 pounds now at 10 months, stops to smell and consider and learn of what occurred here.
As we head back up the hill , all the Witch Hazel winter blossoms and seeds have stood as meals for the birds, the remnants , of them taking their fill on these frozen days , scattered across the snow.
As we approach the house, my young one raises his head, takes a final series of leaps, and begins racing round and round the herb garden- thundering up to me as he considers a four- pawed leap onto me- but I pull him to- take him to task with a hidden smile , and he passes elegantly by, pulling round til I have the back door open. 

On cue, I stand considerately by, and let him thunder his delighted self back on home.