Sometimes, when I go to bed, I think about the coyotes that live in the woodlands that hug the lakeshore in a den unseen in the shallow ravines; they pass unnoticed under our windows at night, lanky grey forms on the edges of light, singing their world into being. I’m finally getting over the time shift and already looking forward to the weekend, hoping that the lead up to Thanksgiving is relatively smooth and that I will somehow feel more alive by then than I do now.