He has hit the chicken lotto. He will never end up in a pot of stew. My sister writes, the girls, eight years old and ten are doting on him like mother hens.
Tonight, my partner and I sat on the front porch as dusk crept over the Sonoma Valley. We watched three bats squeak and hunt mosquitoes over the rows of homes. I marveled at their acrobatic maneuvers like black butterflies at high speed.
Three ducks honked overhead dipping over us before landing at the creek by Taylor Mountain. Our neighbor to the left washed his red truck, another walked by with his two boxers tethered together while the neighbor across the street wood worked as the air cooled from the fog rolling in from the coast.
Every night at 8 p.m. the howling echoes through the neighborhood as children turn their heads up to the moon and yip at the night sky. Neighbors follow baying like wolves, yowling coyotes reaching out to their human packs scattered and isolated.
Every night the people howl and tonight was no exception.
I sat back and listened, smiling.
We have not forgotten. We are animals.
We are nature. Everyone wants to be free.