A hungry creature moans in the night, clawing, howling, raging. It whips the leaves and the branches from the trees where she crouches, small and insignificant in it's wrath. The water that pours from above, falling in thick, fat drops, may have been tears of wrath, grief, or even pain. There is certainly a mournful undertone to the howl that presses through the Cypress and Cedar. When she wakes in the morning, cold and wet and shivering, some from a lingering sense of dread, the world around her is bright and almost cheerful. She is not fooled. The haunt of the Coyote Rain is not so easily ignored.
