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.