The hunter comes to Molehaven*

It came to Molehaven this Sunday morning. On long straight legs built for speed it trotted out of the blackberry thicket, rounded the pond by the pipe that crosses under Milwaukee Boulevard by the Christmas tree farm, passed beneath the fir tree by the hedge where the children hide on their way home from the school, and headed toward the far end of Molehaven.

It paused at the top of the low bank by the holly tree and listened. I raced from my upstairs window to the bedroom window to see where it would appear next, but couldn’t find it. So down to the laundry room for a clear look at ground level to the back, where the coyote was in plain view, nosing around the grape arbor. It sniffed the ground, then lifted its nose almost in howl fashion and sampled the air. No stray pets today, apparently.

I had always known it was there, somewhere out in the field by the school. Its pups would yip and howl at night every time a train passed. But this was the first that I had actually laid eyes on it. And it was magnificent.

It was leading a good life. Its gait was almost a canter. Its coat was a rich, velvety gray, and the tail fur fluffy as a feather duster.

This hunter didn't dawdle. After checking the ground thoroughly, and testing the wind from several directions, it retreated back the way it came, pausing under the fir tree for a moment, then darting to cover in an effortless burst of movement to seek concealment from two passing autos. It didn't lope; it flew, straight as an arrow or a gliding airplane, and faster than a greyhound. It was almost a blur.

It waited quietly, patiently, for silence to return. And then it ambled off into the blackberries. And then it was gone.

* Molhaven was the home of the writer, so christened in about the year 2000, before the madness gripped the city. It was named for Dustinian Mole, the city's Pacific Days mascot for a brief period prior to the madness. At that time, he was the Grand Klekug of Molezania, the subterranean underworld where the creatures gathered to guide the future of their domain, over which the founders of Pacific had become temporary squatters a century ago. There are no mole traps at Molhaven. No-one tries to drown the sovereign lords of Pacific with garden hoses. Or kill them with poison peanuts. Or asphixiate them with burning smoke pellets. Or drive them crazy with vibrations from whirling, spinning plastic sunflowers. Forseeing the coming of the madness, I publicly declared, Chief Joseph Style, that "where the sun now stands, I will fight no mole forever." I've kept my word. At Molehaven, the sovereign lords of Pacific enjoy sanctuary and gather their earthworms in peace, and molehood.