There were four of them and they came at dawn. The sun had just crested the rim far to the east and our coffee was gone. The male was domineering; discontented with his women who were dithering along behind him, vaguely flirting with two males of an alien species. The night had been clear and cold, punctuated by Orion and his loyal hunting dog Sirius, silently stalking across the night sky. A small ravine behind us plunged off a cliff into a 4000-foot abyss and before us a small group of baby Aspen trees stood before an old, majestic Ponderosa Pine like kindergarten kids in front of a beloved teacher. We were all there together in a house made of dawn.
But the male was not a poet and didn’t care about the beauty of the time. Skulking in the grass, he began making mild threats. When that didn’t work, he flared his tail. But even that wasn’t enough, so he marched out, right out into the open, demanding that they come. And so, without a backward glance, they left us.