The drive from Maine to the New Hampshire border had robbed me of the majority of my day, and I did not expect anything extraordinary from tonight. Mother and I had correctly set up our tent: It rested on uneven pavement, surrounded by tall grasses and wildflowers. It was as though we were at an overgrown campground, not a refuge for wolf-dogs. The owner of the refuge had invited us to stay the night here. The tent and car were all we had.

The area was a thing of indeterminable beauty. Poplars and maples in the distance stood with proud and rigid poses, their headdresses of branches and plumed needles towering over the rough terrain. The mood had risen early from its slumber and now nestled comfortably within the folds of the night sky. It tugged a silken scarf of cloud around its chin and gazed down upon its audience.

Mother and I were laid on our backs within the tent. Dew rested on the nylon canvas, feasting on the sight of the rising stars. The tiny droplets of moisture cast monstrous shadows over our bodies.

Miles away from us, coyotes began a chorus, their cries echoing around us through the trees. They sounded as though they were prowling and pacing around our tent. The owner of the refuge was likely feeding the coyotes the scraps of meat that the wolf-dogs could not digest. Their yips amassed to a terrible pitch that penetrated through the thin fabric of the tent. The feral and unsynced music held me captivate. The yowls ended abruptly, then, and the beasts retreated to where they belonged - the wilderness.

The night had not yet drawn to a close. Mother and I held each others eyes. The silence was monumentally peaceful. Shadows danced across her face. She turned off the lantern, bathing us both in darkness. I heard our soft and fragile breaths, tense and help, hoping for a second chorus, yet fearful of it in the same instance.

The true choir began. A single howl tentatively touched the humid evening air. The wolf-dogs began to weave their music into being. Unlike the screams and whines of the coyotes, their howls were deep and measured. A second howl joined the first, followed by countless others, all rising and falling to their own uncharted rhythm. Each voice was of a different octave, lazily uttering perfect notes that send the air shivering and bid the hairs on my neck rise. Nature had a voice, piercing and unrestrained, and it was calling us.

My heart hammered with the beat. Each cry pointed out an individual. Each was a miracle of sound. I strained to hear every note and sober moan. That evening, I fell asleep to the chorus of wolf-dogs. All the while of this happening, the dew on our tent did not tremble. Only when I closed my eyes to succumb to dreams did I imagine then quivering, reflecting the stars and the wreathed moon.