Dan Flores

My wife, Sarah, and I are up early, brewing coffee as crimson and gold set off the kitchen of our house in technicolor southwestern hues.

An ordinary autumn dawn, beautiful enough to break your heart, is unfolding in the Galiseo Valley south of Santa Fe.

Then I see Sarah's eyes widen.

She's looking past me through the windows, so I track her line of sight.

Five coyotes, three of them gangly fall pups looking for all the world like a posse of cruising teenagers, are trotting single file past our kitchen.

Backlit by the colors of the breaking day, every hair on their sharp muzzles, upright ears, and floating tails is outlined in chromium yellow light.

The alpha pair, a robust male and a gracile female, is bringing up the rear, and as they trot that effortless coyote gait past us, I note two more details.

Right off, the female is familiar.

I know her.

She's an unusual coyote, recognizable because she sports a white rather than the more normal black tip at the end of her tail.

At the same time, I registered that two of the yearlings carry that same genetic marker, although in a less pronounced form.

Their cream tail tips speckled with black.

This distinctive female has raised pups in the canyon below the house for at least the past three years.

I've watched her even longer.

Second detail, the male seems to be a new consort.

Has some accident befallen her mate with the split ear?

And his reaction makes me laugh.

Gliding past the house as if he's on skates, his golden eyes suddenly narrow as he spots our brawny Alaskan Malamute, Cody, sleepily lounging on the front porch.

Never breaking stride, but with a quick lip curl and grimace.

No time to hang out.