The nights here in the desert have been silent of late, and though that may be perceived as a good thing, I have come to wonder over the past few weeks what has become of the coyotes.  Normally throughout the summer months, they may be counted upon to prowl the empty desert across the street, engaging in a myriad of lullabyes and war cries and lonely ballads to the crisp, clean edges of a sliver moon as it slides behind the mountains to the west.

Instead, for several weeks, I have not heard a single coyote.  And, indeed, there is evidence that other forms of wildlife have noticed their absence as well.  Jackrabbits who are normally skittish have been walking up onto my front porch on their hind legs - looking somewhat like small children in rabbit suits with their long ears lolling lazily to the side as they pluck through bird seed looking for some special treasures.  Under normal circumstances, the rabbits do not come up onto the porch because it essentially traps them should a predator come calling - and coyotes are well known for their unpredictability.  Contrary to myth, they are not solitary night stalkers, but may hunt at any time of the day.

Additionally, during the summer months it is customary to hear the ungodly screech of what I have come to call the sentinel squirrels - sentries who position themselves atop tall rocks or bushes to keep an eye out for approaching predators.  Of course, the mailman or the UPS guy may qualify every bit as much as a coyote or perigrin falcon, but suffice it to say even the sentinel squirrels have been ominously silent, and so unconcerned squirrels mill about the cactus garden as if having forgotten the nature of the predatory universe, and entire coveys of quail roam the yard with seemingly not a care in the world.  Their numbers are larger than I have ever seen them - normally by this time of year, the amount of young ones following their parents have dwindled to the 3 or 4 who have survived the summer predators.  This year, it is not uncommon to see the parents being trailed by 10 or more "teenagers".  Normally, the youngsters may be observed gazing frantically from side to side as they pay heed to the possibility of attack from any angle.  Now, their existence seems altogether idyllic.  No fear.

Even the owls who normally call to one another during the early part of the evening have been strangely absent.  In the course of the summer, I have heard them only one night, and that was several weeks ago.  It's as if the desert has become a strangely silent garden of Eden - which, of course, is usually only a prelude to some great catastrophe.  The predators have all gone away, and the prey seems to have forgotten it is prey as a result.

There is a sense of serene forboding.  Something is afoot.

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