It’s 6:44am, pitch-dark outside and the door is open (I live in the desert and winter is prime time for open windows and doors). A group of coyotes are howling in the distance and they sound like a bunch of frat boys at a football game.
The blank page looks at me, unblinking.
I remember – when I was a kid –  my  little mutt terrier, Leon, howling, his mouth forming a perfect “O,” as my sister played her violin. Something primal was happening.

The page waits.

The coyotes get much louder and yip-yip-yip over each other. They’ve made a kill, probably a rabbit.