This is a short fictional piece I wrote earlier this year. It's intent is to capture a sense of the place in which it is set, Coyote Hills Regional Park in Fremont, CA. It's a bit raw, but I'm thinking of taking this into something larger. Photos follow.
The Babies
They were born under bald, green hills on the edge of the Bay, under steep red paths to the treeless hilltops, aside flat brown geometries of salt ponds, in distant view of the low arch of a homely bridge. They stuck close to their mothers in the steady summer wind. The first few days, in the crook between two hills, the jostling of the herd and the sounds of the other goats surrounded the babies and filled their long ears with comfort, so they could sleep snug under the stars.
At first the black dogs frightened them and they shook like stringy little leaves. But the wolves stayed, and after a time the babies understood, the wolves would just orbit the herd, and not penetrate it.
The man in the red and green bandana stepped out of his white teardrop trailer and drank a cup of coffee. He watched the herd, counted the babies, watched the dogs circle around. Before the sun rose over the hills the wind was light, and the little ones stepped out beyond the protection of the herd. A red and white baby, four tiny white legs, enormous eyes, stumbled this way and that onto the dirt road behind the trailer and stopped in the middle to look east. There was another green hill, two or three wind-shaped trees, and a glittering lagoon framed in living cattails. The baby's eyes followed the cattails in the morning breeze.
The man set his coffee cup inside the teardrop trailer and picked up his aluminum shepherd's hook. He walked across the grass to the road, where he stood beside the baby, watching the cattails. A mile on the other side of the lagoons he could see square laboratories and warehouses, and a few miles beyond those, Mission Peak, spring green until the rains stop. The baby, too short to see anything but the cattails and the tips of the mountains, turned and galloped back to her mother.
Bushes rustled just down the road. The man raised his hook above his head, shook it, and shouted in the language of a man who lives alone. The bushes stilled for several minutes. He watched the bushes as the black dogs watched the goats. Finally, a sleek blond cougar crawled away to the farther hills while the babies huddled in the fold of the herd.
The Babies
They were born under bald, green hills on the edge of the Bay, under steep red paths to the treeless hilltops, aside flat brown geometries of salt ponds, in distant view of the low arch of a homely bridge. They stuck close to their mothers in the steady summer wind. The first few days, in the crook between two hills, the jostling of the herd and the sounds of the other goats surrounded the babies and filled their long ears with comfort, so they could sleep snug under the stars.
At first the black dogs frightened them and they shook like stringy little leaves. But the wolves stayed, and after a time the babies understood, the wolves would just orbit the herd, and not penetrate it.
The man in the red and green bandana stepped out of his white teardrop trailer and drank a cup of coffee. He watched the herd, counted the babies, watched the dogs circle around. Before the sun rose over the hills the wind was light, and the little ones stepped out beyond the protection of the herd. A red and white baby, four tiny white legs, enormous eyes, stumbled this way and that onto the dirt road behind the trailer and stopped in the middle to look east. There was another green hill, two or three wind-shaped trees, and a glittering lagoon framed in living cattails. The baby's eyes followed the cattails in the morning breeze.
The man set his coffee cup inside the teardrop trailer and picked up his aluminum shepherd's hook. He walked across the grass to the road, where he stood beside the baby, watching the cattails. A mile on the other side of the lagoons he could see square laboratories and warehouses, and a few miles beyond those, Mission Peak, spring green until the rains stop. The baby, too short to see anything but the cattails and the tips of the mountains, turned and galloped back to her mother.
Bushes rustled just down the road. The man raised his hook above his head, shook it, and shouted in the language of a man who lives alone. The bushes stilled for several minutes. He watched the bushes as the black dogs watched the goats. Finally, a sleek blond cougar crawled away to the farther hills while the babies huddled in the fold of the herd.
