In my mind’s eye, I sit atop a hill, in the backyard of my grandparent’s farmhouse. “Backyard” probably isn’t the correct term. It’s a long rectangle of mowed grass where their dogs run, stretching from the back patio to the goat pens. My brother’s dogs run around me and the goats jaunt together through their enclosure. If I walked forward a few acres, through tall grass and damp marsh, I would hit Crotched Mountain. I can see it from here. In the damp morning light, fog gathers toward the mountain’s base. The moisture makes everything, the trees, the grass, the moss on ancient rocks, turn a startling emerald green. I walk down the powdery farm road, which twists and turns through a small portion of the land. I look in any direction and I see old stone walls, assembled by hard working farmers, fencing off their own animals in the days before you could just buy galvanized steel wire mesh. I wonder if the coyotes knew how lucky they were. If I walked long enough in any direction I would probably find one. At night, we can see their eyes. They can’t be far. If I were my brother I would bring a gun, but I have no desire to kill today. I just want to see the furry creature that would eat my baby goat in a heartbeat. I can relate. I go from petting my dear Matilda to chowing down on some kebab. I walk through the woods, eyes peeled for movement. I know I won’t find anything. The newts and water bugs are enough for me.