The coyote wasn’t gone. It continued its saunter along the path that surrounded the Hollywood reservoir, stealth eyes darting to the moonlit forest on either side of the path, looking for a snack. Lizards and mice scurrying through the woods were tempting but it was hungry for bigger, more satisfying fare. A few minutes later it reached a familiar spot on the east side of the reservoir. It leapt over a low wall and scrambled up through the brush that angled up to a woody ravine at the base of the hill below the Hollywood sign. It stopped there, under a four foot high chapparel and stood still. Poised. Listening. The sound of twigs cracking and leaves rustling signaled a squirrel, hare or rat was nearby.
On the top of the hill above the ravine, a row of houses nestled onto a ridge overlooking the forest and reservoir below. The crumbling stucco house on the end of the row had a low stone wall that edged the brush. A young woman sat on the wall, bare feet dangling down. She was eating a MoonPie. An old Pentax 35mm camera rested in her lap. She looked into the forest, watching little puffs of light rising up, so small they looked like dandelion fluff. The moment was broken by the scuffling sound of the coyote and its prey in a dance of death coming from down the hill.
“Let it go–” the woman called out.
The coyote heard her and looked up; a squirrel in its mouth. It thought about it but it didn’t let go.
The woman listened, through more scuffling, squeaks and squeals, waiting for silence. When it came, she raised her camera. As a larger shimmer of light drifted up out of the brush and disappeared into the sky, she took its picture, in a sequence of stills as the shimmer disappeared into the night sky.
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