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In Its Absence Presence Becomes Emptiness

She writes out all the things she knows about coyotes: "I like them. They are monogamous. Tip-toeing omnivores. They circle dumpsters. Howling. Now they are spotted in cities. A dog has been mistaken for one."

Her house is overrun with plants an embarrassing lushness. Ivy climbs the porch; gardenias grow to absurd heights, and succulents litter windowsills and tiny tables.

She enjoys preparing time-consuming recipes capellini with slow roasted tomato sauce for example. (For best results, the books suggest, one must use carefully selected tomatoes, home grown basil, lovingly chopped garlic, olive oil from a specialty store, a low flame, and hours.)

As for movies in queue there are several, including one about a fake count and another about a small boy who loses a bicycle.

She shops for many things: clay; a sweater; nectarines; recyclable boxes; tiny bottles of eau de toilette; more plants; spackle.

In the mornings tiny hummingbirds appear at the feeders in the yard, their wings beating the dewy air. At night the crickets make glistening music and she lies still, entranced.

Story by:

Tara Roeder

18 October 2015