A pack of coyotes moved through the edge of camp in the middle of the night. They sound like sharp sticks. They sound like every illustration I have ever seen of wild dog-like creatures: chest thrust out, throat and snout thrown up, pointing, hurling a vertical screech at the moon. A pack of howling sinew. Dark silhouette in the dark forest in the dark night, invisible. The wild chanting of unseen creatures. I am not afraid.