Three coyotes outside come and go by the house and I can hear my mother listening and breathing in the next room as they sing in sticky rounds to where the moon might be and I wonder if she hears me hum and breathe to myself as the fan blows through my curls while two fingers strum the other hand waiting for the rounds to end and waiting for the rounds to begin again. The photograph of a painting by a window is closer to my bed since last I was home and every so often there is the shadow of a man beyond the window and I wonder if he hears the howls too or if it’s only me and mother in the next room breathing slowly in and out with the fans and the screens open and the coyotes breathing and humming too.