Making tracks

The perfect winter’s night--full moon casting long shadows while snow fell ever so lightly--had given us the perfect morning for tracking.

Delicate flakes, still standing apart from the rest in the cold morning air, waiting for the sun or the pressure of a step.
I headed off to the pond—now solid from the week’s freezing temperatures and scanned the flat white expanse, where the night’s visitors sign a guestbook of sorts. The lure of the water’s edge--a hunting ground, even in this deep freeze.


Little footprints—birds, squirrels, rabbits—in clusters, as if they’d lingered safely, foraging here early this morning under the cover of darkness. Then, a trail, skirting the edge, and boldly crossing to the other side, caught my eye. It was fairly large and definitely canine.

Hmmm.
Possibly a neighbor’s loose dog, though I thought not. Very straight-forward and business-like, this trail seemed to be—not the wandering of a roving Rover.
And, although I would’ve liked to find we had a fox—I immediately remembered the coyote resting in the cool grass back here last June.
Had he returned?

I checked the dimensions and measured the tracks, —I would be bold, too—and say, with certainty, “coyote.”



By evening, I was feeling very proud of my recently tested tracking skills, and eager to share the find with my husband returning home from work.
“The coyote was out by the pond this morning,” I said, greeting him. “I found his tracks.”

“Oh, I completely forgot to tell you! I saw him back there before I went to work.”