Night. The pack slips silently out of the den, drawn by an unnameable urge deep in the midbrain. The streets are deserted, the twolegs having retreated to the safety of their dwellings. The world belongs to them now. The waxing moon rises above the low red brick houses of Wrigleyville. Light enough to see and not be seen. It is a hunting moon.
They pass the bad place as quickly as they can. Uncountable twolegs gather here every afternoon during the summer to yell in unison in some strange ritual, but it is deserted. It is deserted almost every autumn. The smell is the same: hopelessness, emotional decay. Yet the stench is somehow stronger. Every year, for more than a hundred years, the scent of despair grows more pronounced. It seeps into the ivy, joining the abandoned dreams of those who came before. There is something awful and unnatural here. Something wrong. This is a dying place.
They sniff around in vain. There is rarely food here, and what can be found is usually defiled with the same stink of the bad place. At least it is quiet: the twolegs have long traded most of their senses for the comforts of civilization, but even they still seem to realize that there is nothing good here. Scavenging can be done in peace. Yet when the trees turn green again, they will be back—as if every spring they forget the pain this ground causes. That is the curse of this place. Ears pinned back, teeth bared against the unseen taint, the pack moves off into the darkness. Coyotes do not fear death, but there are things worse than death at Clark and Addison.
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Pictures of coyotes at Wrigley Field taken by photographer Will Byington. Contact him at his website, WillByington.com.