The prairie grass dances and tickles my side. I sit on the hilltop and look out over the ranch. The increasingly crisp autumn breeze caresses my face as if to say that I am truly home. I pluck a stalk of Indian-grass and place it in my teeth—the flavor of grain and loam completes my sensory euphoria. I am relaxed in my natural haven, yet contemplative. Should there really be more to life than this? I turn and look towards my home. Smoke from the first fire of the year rises lazily from the chimney. Post-oak. I guess Mom is cold already. I’m not. I am perfect. In this moment my very spirit is satisfied. I see the garden, turned, and brimming with stubble. The fresh corn is gone now, but I can still taste it. An ear of corn, and a diminutive quail roasted over coals. Has anyone ever dined so fairly? My eyes shift; my contemplation broken by movement on the horizon. A nervous coyote steals down the hill and towards the timberline. Are he and I so different? He is better at the game of life than I am. No doubt. Coyotes don’t have to make excuses or meet deadlines; coyotes don’t worry about taxes or getting into grad school. Coyotes just exist. They eat, sleep, love, and live. He melds into the brush before we can connect too strongly and I miss him instantly. I have lost a brother. I want to call for him, but I don’t have the words. Do we ever? I howl anyways. I howl about who I am, how I feel, and what I lack. Whitman and I both sound our barbaric yawps over the rooftops of the world. Two doves afflicted by my wail cross hastily over the surface of our pond and alight on the dam. As they flee the sound of their wings makes my heart beat faster; I swing an imaginary shotgun to intersect them and then smile. From the brush I am taught in the linguistics of the wild; a howl emanates from behind a pecan tree. My brother hasn’t forgotten me. I am humbled by his consideration. I dust off my hat and amble towards the oil lamp in the distant window. Life goes on.
