Winter came late that year. Not the kind of late that makes you notice. Just late. The way everything gets late if you let it.

I was out checking the fence line, the one that runs along the north property, where the land drops off into the coulee and the juniper grows thick and the ground is full of rocks that break your boots if you're not careful. The fence was down in three places. Not broken. Just down. The kind of down that happens when the wind gets under the wire and lifts it, slowly, like a hand lifting a curtain.

I fixed two of them. The third I decided was someone else's problem.

On the way back, I saw them. Three coyotes. Or maybe four. Hard to tell in the flat light of a Montana November. They were standing in the coulee, watching the sky, their ears forward, their tails low. Not hunting. Not running. Just standing there, in the place where the land falls away, watching something I couldn't see.

I kept walking.

They were still there when I got back to the house. I didn't mention it to anyone. There was no one to mention it to. The house was empty except for me and the dog, and the dog had been dead two years and I hadn't gotten around to telling him.

They came back the next morning.

I found the rabbit on the porch. Not dead. Well, dead. But fresh. Whole. Lying on the top step, where the morning light hit first. I picked it up. It was heavy. Cold. I set it on the kitchen table and stared at it for a minute, then opened the freezer, cleared a space, and put it in.

I didn't think much of it. Rabbits die. Coyotes eat rabbits. Coyotes leave things where people can find them. It's what they do. It's what everything does.

They came back the next week. A squirrel this time. Smaller. Lighter. I put it in the freezer next to the rabbit.

And the week after that. A bird. A quail, I think. Or a pheasant. I don't know. I don't eat much wild game. Never have. My father hunted, and I went with him twice, and on the third time I told him I wasn't going, and he didn't ask me again.

The coyotes came. They left the food. I put it in the freezer. I drank coffee. I watched the sky.

That's what happened. That's the story. Nothing more, nothing less.

I started noticing things. Not dramatic things. Small things. The way the coyotes always came at the same time—just after sunrise, when the light was grey and the frost was still on the ground. The way they always stood in the same place, at the edge of the coulee, watching the house. The way they never came closer than fifty yards, even when I stood on the porch and called to them, which I did sometimes, out of habit, the way you talk to a dog that doesn't answer.

Dale came by in December. He was running low on gas, or he said he was, and he pulled into my driveway and sat in his truck for a minute, watching the house.

"Everything okay?" he said.

"Fine," I said.

"You look fine."

"I am fine."

He nodded. He looked at the porch. I followed his eyes. There was a rabbit there, fresh, whole, lying on the top step in the same place as the first one.

"What's that?" he said.

"I don't know."

"Your dog dead?"

"No."

"Then what is it?"

I didn't answer. Dale looked at me the way men look at men who have stopped answering questions that used to have simple answers.

"Right," he said. "Well. I better go. Gas isn't going to pump itself."

He drove away in his truck, which was the colour of dried mud and smelled like stale coffee and regret. I watched him go. Then I went onto the porch and picked up the rabbit and carried it inside and put it in the freezer and sat down at the kitchen table and drank coffee that tasted like burnt water and thought about nothing.

January came. The coyotes came. They left a deer.

Not a small deer. A full-grown mule deer, buck, antlers still in velvet, body heavy and warm and real. I had to drag it to the freezer with a rope and a pulley system I'd built for hanging side of beef. It took me three hours. I was sweating by the time I got it into the freezer, and my hands were raw from the rope, and I stood in the kitchen for a long time, breathing hard, looking at the freezer door, which was now full.

Full of dead animals. Coyote-killed. Coyote-delivered. Coyote-something.

I didn't know what.

I didn't want to know.

February came. The coyotes came. They left two rabbits and a skunk. I put them all in the freezer. The freezer was so full I could barely close the door. I wedged a broom against it to keep it shut.

March came. The coyotes didn't come.

I noticed this immediately. Not because I was waiting—I wasn't waiting, I don't wait for anything—but because the absence of something you've come to expect is itself a kind of expectation. The porch was empty. The kitchen table was empty. The freezer was full and silent and full of things that no one was going to eat.

I didn't go looking for them. I didn't stand at the edge of the coulee and call out. I didn't leave out bait or set traps or do any of the things that men do when they want something to happen.

I just let it be.

April came. The coyotes didn't come.

May came. The coyotes didn't come.

June came. I mowed the lawn. I hadn't mowed the lawn in three years. I don't know why I started this year. Maybe because the coyotes weren't coming. Maybe because the grass was getting so long it was starting to look like someone lived here, and I was tired of the impression that I didn't.

July came. I sat on the porch in the evenings. Not because I was waiting. Just because the porch was cool and the evenings were cool and the house was hot and the chair on the porch was the only chair that didn't have a spring poking through the cushion.

August came. I stopped sitting on the porch. Not because I was done waiting. Just because it was getting hot and the mosquitoes were bad and the chair with the broken cushion was starting to feel less like comfort and more like punishment.

September came. The coyotes didn't come.

October came. I thought about the deer. The one they'd left in January. How heavy it was. How warm. How I'd dragged it to the freezer with a rope and a pulley system and my hands were raw and I'd stood in the kitchen breathing hard and looking at the freezer door.

I thought about why I'd kept it. Not eaten it. Just kept it. Full in the freezer. Behind the broom. A monument to something I couldn't name.

November came. Late. The kind of late that makes you notice.

I sat on the porch. The light was grey. The frost was on the ground. The coulee was empty.

I waited.

Not because I expected them to come. I knew they wouldn't. Coyotes don't keep appointments. They don't return debts. They don't build habits the way men do. They come when they come and leave when they leave and the space between is just space, nothing more.

I waited anyway.

Because waiting is a habit. And habits are hard to break. Even when you know they mean nothing. Even when you know the thing you're waiting for is not coming. Even when you know, with a certainty that is almost physical, that the absence you're waiting to fill was never going to be filled.

I sat on the porch. I drank coffee. I watched the coulee. I watched the sky. I watched the light fail.

And then I stood up. I went inside. I closed the door. I locked it. I sat at the kitchen table and drank more coffee and thought about nothing.

The coyotes didn't come that winter. Or the next. Or the one after that.

I stopped mowing the lawn. The grass grew long. The juniper grew thicker. The fence fell down in more places. I fixed none of them.

The freezer stayed full. I never opened it. I never threw anything out. I just left it there, behind the broom, full of dead animals that no one was going to eat, a monument to something I couldn't name.

Dale came by once, two years later. He pulled into the driveway, sat in his truck for a minute, looked at the house, looked at the overgrown lawn, looked at the fence that was now down in every place.

"Everything okay?" he said.

"Fine," I said.

He nodded. He didn't ask anything else. He drove away in his truck, which was the colour of dried mud and smelled like stale coffee and regret.

I watched him go. Then I went onto the porch and sat down and watched the coulee and the sky and the light fail.

And I thought about the coyotes. Not with longing. Not with regret. Just thought about them, the way you think about a word you've forgotten—the shape of it, the sound of it, the fact that it used to mean something and now doesn't.

They came. They left food. I put it in the freezer. I drank coffee. I watched the sky.

That's what happened. That's the story. Nothing more, nothing less.

I sat on the porch until the darkness was complete. Then I went inside. I closed the door. I locked it. I sat at the kitchen table and drank coffee and thought about nothing.

The coyotes didn't come.

They don't come.

They aren't coming.

And I'm not waiting.

I'm not.

I'm just sitting here. On the porch. In the dark. Drinking coffee. Watching the coulee.

Waiting.

Not for them.

Just waiting.

Because that's what you do. You sit. You wait. You drink coffee. You watch the sky. And when the sky goes dark, you go inside. You close the door. You lock it. You sit at the table. You drink more coffee. You think about nothing.

And tomorrow, you do it again.

Because that's what you do.

That's all.