On Galveston Island, Mother held baby Lily’s hand, watching the red coyote standing in the last brushy field before the ocean. The coyote stared, bottle-brush tail up, her ginger pup raising its long ears. How did coyotes settle on the island? Lily learned to walk in that field last month, playing follow-the-leader with Mother, weaving through shrub-land before sand and sea.
At night, armed with fierce love and teeth, coyotes loped into their backyard, chewing fallen pomegranates, splashing in the plastic kiddie pool. Through a curtain, Mother spied the coyotes grilling rabbits on the patio and feeding chunks to their pups.