On a Coyote, a Passage -- by Alex Ranieri

The day, which had begun so fine, was clouding over; but Rachel sat in all the splendor of her aunt’s garden with her eyes closed, and didn’t at first notice the change. She was striving to forget her impending return to college, which must be in five weeks, and had so effectually succeeded, as to enter into an entirely different world of the mind, which so strongly pressed on all her senses, that when a noise did finally rouse her, she opened her eyes with the full expectation of beholding her meditation in the flesh.

On being disappointed by the real world, she half-turned towards the rustling in the hedge, still expecting to find the object of her musings there, and was startled by a coyote, who trotted past within two feet of where she sat, crossed the garden without taking any notice of her, and disappeared at last into the opposing hedge.

Rachel could not have stated in any rational manner why this little incident produced such a lasting impression. Yet, even months later, she could recall with eerily complete clarity that animal’s dull eyes, its long thin tongue and yellow teeth—while remembering its complete indifference to her presence, and how far her consciousness had been from earthly things the previous moment, never failed of arousing in her a dissonant sensation of having become a ghost in her own body.