It’s mid-morning when I walk the back road. Sunlight speckles through the leafy branches, its warmth burning the dew off ferns. And then I hear the coyotes call from deep in the forest, their yips blooming uncannily into a chorus of howls and cries. Cold floods my veins and pricks the back of my neck; my pulse hastens. It feels as if nighttime has invaded day – like when a solar eclipse brings all the cows, bewildered and disoriented, to the fence, though the clock says milking’s hours away. The wrongness of it is what makes me hurry back home, where I remark in an offhanded way, I guess that’s what they mean by “blood-curdling.” Still, I know the coyotes are just calling to gather their pack or warn another off their territory, something they do regardless of time of day. Whatever inconsonance exists is within me: I’m the one who fears the darkness, calls it light’s enemy, thinks night and day opposed. Yet shadow’s meaningless without the light, and day and night segue smoothly, without any fixed demarcation line. To see all life as continuum and not as antithesis is to release fear and yield to flow. Creatures know by instinct what takes me a lifetime to grasp – but maybe there’s still time for my midnight and morning voices to rise with equal, brave power.