I felt like I was in a Stephen King scene yesterday evening when I stepped out to look at the strange sky. The nearly full moon was rising behind thick storm clouds. It was less a moon and more a phosphorous-coated specter hidden behind a threadbare window curtain. It didn’t reveal what it was; it just produced a glowing light that illuminated the area in a creepy way and cast impenetrable shadows.
At first, there was silence, the kind of silence that seems to weigh over you at night like a bed blanket that’s too heavy. Then, a nearby coyote let go with a wail that shattered the silence to smithereens and immediately burned out my fear-flight fuse. A second coyote answered, as did others in a series that eventually became five relatively close coyotes. They sounded as if they were within a half mile to a mile of me. The chorus lasted about 10 minutes, until the light dimmed as the rain clouds thickened into a dark paste.
This episode seems to confirm the theory that coyotes don’t bay at the moon, as such. They bay when the moon provides light and illuminates the pack’s home territory, reminding them to warn off tempted intruders. It often is easier for them to hunt as a team in the moonlight, when they’ll communicate their positions with howls. (Image taken in Brooklin, Maine, on December 6, 2022.)